Nothing But Love
by OperaLover
Summary: This is a sequel to No One But Her, beginning 10 years after the end of that story. Stephen de Chagny is now a teenager. Nothing but love will see Erik, Christine and their family through the crises that arise.
1. Chapter 1

**Nothing But Love**

Chapter One

Paris, France—April, 1886

"No, Stephen, try it this way instead."

The fourteen-year old boy threw down his sword; it bounced off the padding on the floor and clanged into a corner. "I don't have to listen to you!" he shouted, his voice cracking on the last word. "You are not my father!"

The eerie similarity to words spoken more than fifteen years earlier sent a chill coursing down Erik Montenegro's spine. Speechless, he watched as Stephen de Chagny stomped to the door of the exercise room and flung it open.

The tall, athletic boy nearly knocked his mother to the floor as he left the room; after a brief muttered apology he raced down the hallway without a backward glance.

"Stephen Daaé de Chagny, you come back here this instant!" she called after him, frowning in irritation when he did no more than pause a second before continuing on his angry way. Entering the room, she found Erik standing at the window, staring out at the grounds of Chanson House, where he and Christine and their children had lived for ten years.

Glancing back over his shoulder, he gave her a sad half-smile and her heart overflowed with the love she felt for him. Gently she slid her arm around his trim waist and leaned into him, heard him sigh. "What happened this time?" she asked quietly.

"He does not have to listen to me, since I am not his father." His tone was even, but Christine sensed the pain that lurked behind it. "I do love him, Christine, no less and no more than the girls or Nicolas." Erik closed his eyes and swallowed. "Does he not realize that? Have I not shown him often enough?" Opening his eyes, he walked to the case mounted on the wall that held an assortment of épées, rapiers and swords and slid his into its notch.

Following him, she put both arms around him and held him close, angry beyond words with her son for hurting this good man. "He knows very well that you love him." She huffed out a breath in disgust. "And you work very diligently, perhaps too much so at times, to show no favoritism among the children." She sighed. "Part of it is his age."

"I know," he murmured, "but . . . he sounded so much like Raoul, my love; it was . . . disturbing, to say the least." The warm spring breeze teased the filmy white curtains at the windows, but Erik saw snowflakes and cold marble statues amid tombstones.

He shivered, causing Christine to pull back and look at him more closely. The past ten years had put strands of silver at his temples, and had added lines to his face, but he was still her Angel of Music. "Are you all right?" she asked softly, her hand going to his forehead as though he were one of the children whom she was checking for a fever.

Sighing, he took her hand from his head and dropped a kiss in the palm. "Yes, mon coeur, I'm fine." He pulled her back into his embrace, inhaling the scent of her hair, and kissed the top of her curls. One hand drifted down her back and cupped her bottom, making her squeak in surprise.

"Erik! It's broad daylight!"

"So?" he murmured, nuzzling her jaw and neck. He moved away a few inches and gave her a wicked grin. "It wouldn't be the first time, love."

"No, but . . ." Her protest faded away as he began to dot her face with tiny kisses. "Erik," she said softly but firmly, "I must go find Stephen and talk to him. I will not permit him to treat you like this."

That dumped a bucket of cold water on his ardor like nothing else. "Yes, I suppose you must," he agreed reluctantly. Before she moved completely out of his arms, he claimed her mouth in a scorching kiss then stepped back. "Remember that tonight, love—this is where we stopped."

Christine had to lock her knees to keep from toppling over when he released her. A dreamy look crossed her face as she watched him stride away. Even after ten years of marriage, he still had the ability to leave her breathless. It was something she prayed would never change. "Oh, don't worry—I won't forget where we stopped."

* * *

After checking all his usual hiding places, Christine found Stephen in the stables, slumped in the straw of an empty stall. Several kittens from the most recent litter crawled over him, across his lap, up his arm and down his back.

Christine stood and watched him for several minutes. Occasionally he winced when a claw sank a little too deep, and a brief smile flitted across his face when one of the kittens curled up on his shoulder and began to purr loudly. Another settled in his lap and absently the youth began to stroke the small animal's back with one finger.

Shuffling her feet in the straw to gain his attention, slowly she approached her son. Erik had once described him as the very image of Raoul, and it was becoming more apparent with each passing day. His hair, his eyes, his height—sometimes even his voice made her heart stop a moment, it sounded so much like his father's.

Remembering his manners at last, Stephen started to get to his feet, but his mother touched his shoulder and shook her head. Gracefully she folded her skirts beneath her and sank down onto the straw. A kitten immediately crawled into her lap and curled up in a tiny ball.

"I'm sorry, Maman." His voice cracked and a flush rose on his cheeks. He ducked his head and concentrated on the kitten in his lap.

"It is not I who deserves your apology, mon fils," she replied calmly, and saw the color on his face deepen.

"I—I know, Maman. I didn't mean to say it; truly I didn't! It—it just—came out!"

They sat in relative silence for a few moments, the mews and purrs of the kittens making them both smile. Then Christine asked idly, "How much do you know about how Erik and I met?"

Shrugging, Stephen said, "Grandmère Marie has told me some of it, and . . . I've overheard her talking to Grandmère Violet about it."

"Let me tell you the story." Scooting back until she could lean against the boards of the stall, Christine gathered her thoughts. "You knew that my papa died when I was about the age of Nicolas, and that I went to live at the Opera Populaire with Grandmère Marie and Tante Meg?"

Stephen nodded, and she continued, "My maman had died when I was born, so all my life it had just been my papa and me. He was a violinist, and was the concertmaster of the opera orchestra. That meant he was second-in-command to the conductor, M. Reyer. Papa was often sick, coughing, in the winters especially, and Grandmère Marie told me when I was older that he had died of consumption.

"I didn't understand what it meant, when someone died, and I was inconsolable when Papa finally was too weak to fight any longer. One night not long after I had moved into the opera house, I went down to the chapel to light a candle for Papa. I began to cry, was sobbing, really, when I heard this voice from above, singing softly. It was the most beautiful voice I had ever heard, Stephen, and I forgot for a moment how lonely I felt. The voice . . . calmed me, and told me . . . that as long as I remembered my papa, he would always be with me.

"Many nights after that, either when I was in the chapel or even sometimes as I lay in my bed, I would hear the voice in my head. Most nights he sang to me, and I would fall asleep to the sound of his voice. Papa had told me just before he died that he would send an Angel of Music to me from heaven. I was certain that the voice I heard was the Angel that Papa had promised me.

"Years passed and when I was about your age, the voice began to teach me, to coach me in my singing. When I was not much older than you, I had the opportunity to sing in a gala concert, replacing the prima donna soprano, and . . . it was a huge success. That night, after the concert was over, I met Erik face to face for the first time. I recognized his voice as that of my Angel."

"But what about Papa?" Stephen's voice had a slight edge of belligerence to it.

"Your papa and I had known each other when I was quite young, even younger than Nicolas. After I went to live at the opera house, I did not see your papa until the very night of the gala concert. He came to the dressing room and we spoke of times past." Taking a deep breath she remembered the events that followed. "He became my almost constant companion after that, and the feelings that we had had for each other as children blossomed into something more."

"And—Erik? He didn't like that, did he?" The astuteness of Stephen's question surprised Christine a bit, and she shook her head.

"No," she replied softly, "he didn't. Oh, Stephen, I'm not certain that I can explain it to you, that I can make you understand how I felt." Her voice trailed away as she gave in to the memories that beat against her. "They were both so—so compelling, and . . . handsome, and . . . and I felt something for both of them. Something in each of them called to me, and I was torn between them." At her son's snort of disgust, she said, "I don't expect you to understand this today, but given a year's time, it will make more sense to you, I promise."

Stephen had no response to that, and they sat a few moments, both lost in thought. Christine broke the silence first. "Did you know that your papa tried to kill Erik in a swordfight?"

Her son's head jerked up at that, and she nodded solemnly. "Yes, and they were fighting over me. I had gone to your grandfather's grave, and Erik was there, also, and your papa followed me, and . . ." Shivering at those horrible memories, she went on softly, "In the course of the fight Erik cut your papa's arm and then Raoul forced him down and knocked his sword away and was ready to kill him—and I stopped him."

Sighing heavily, she added, "Your papa told me much later that he was glad I had stopped him." She looked directly into Stephen's eyes and said, "I am certain that you have also heard that Erik killed two men during that time. I can tell you that Joseph Buquet was a pig, in the truest sense of the word, and his death was no loss to anyone. Piangi was married to La Carlotta, and . . ."

Gently Christine lifted the sleeping kitten from her lap and placed it on a scrap of blanket lying in the corner of the stall. "I really cannot say what kind of man Piangi was. But I believe in my heart that Erik does penance every day for his death." She closed her eyes briefly, opening them to stare at the straw at her feet. "Erik is a good man, Stephen. You know this in your heart. He . . . tried to kidnap me, and when your papa came after me, he forced me to choose between him and Raoul. I chose him, because I knew that was the only way your papa would have a chance to live, even with him pleading for me not to throw my life away for his sake. I was perfectly willing to spend the rest of my life with Erik, if it meant your papa would go free."

Suddenly she stood and grasped the top of one of the boards of the stall. "A crowd of people was coming down into the lair below the opera house where Erik lived, coming to free your papa and me, and . . . kill Erik. When he heard them coming, Erik knew that forcing me to stay with him would accomplish nothing, and . . . he let the both of us go free."

"You and Papa were married not long after that, Grandmère Marie told me." Stephen's voice subdued, he rose and stood behind his mother. She turned and put her arm around his shoulders, and awkwardly he gave her a brief hug.

"Yes, and from the day he let us go, until several days after your papa was killed four years later, I did not see him." Tears gathered in her eyes as she remembered that day, still as fresh in her memory as if it had been yesterday. "He came and told me that he was sorry about your papa, that he had borne him no ill will, and that he regretted what he had done to us."

Straightening, she cupped her son's chin in her hand and stared into his eyes, Raoul's eyes. "I will expect you to have apologized by the time that we sit down to eat dinner tonight," she told him, her tone leaving no room for argument.

"Yes, Maman," he whispered, and she kissed his forehead and left the stable. Collapsing back onto the straw, he picked up the smoke gray kitten that had been asleep on his shoulder. The kitten batted at the tears that slipped down his cheeks as he nuzzled its soft fur. "I will never forget you, Papa—never!"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Of course, the characters of Erik and Christine are not of my creation; endless thanks to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber for them. The others, though, belong to me-- for better or worse.

**Nothing But Love**

Chapter Two

Erik raised his head at the hesitant knock on the open door of his study. "Yes, Stephen, what is it?"

"May I—may I come in, Erik?" He had never called the older man by anything but his given name. Although Erik loved him as his own, he knew the lad did not reciprocate his feelings.

"Certainly. I was just looking at the breeding book." In addition to his other business ventures, Erik bred and raised riding horses, selling them only after carefully investigating the prospective owners. "I've been thinking that it's time you took on a little more responsibility with the horses—if you want," he added quickly.

The hint of a smile that flashed across Stephen's face was all the answer he needed. "All right, we'll come back after dinner and I'll tell you what I am planning."

At the mention of 'dinner', Stephen's face fell almost comically. "Ummm . . . I want . . . need to apologize for my behavior this morning," he finished in a rush. "It was . . . unforgivable, what I said to you." Ashamed, he stared at the floor, unable to look Erik in the eye.

The older man blew out a breath. "Well." Unsure of what to say, he reached out slowly and put a hand on Stephen's shoulder. He felt the boy stiffen slightly and he gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. "The next time, will you do something for me?" The unexpected request brought Stephen's head up and he stared curiously. "Before you let your temper, or whatever it might be get the better of you, remember how lucky you are to have your mother."

Erik said no more, only looked at Stephen expectantly and the youth nodded slowly. "Good! Now, let's go find out what is causing that wonderful smell coming from the kitchen."

Side by side they walked to the dining room, finding Christine and the other children already seated at the table. Stephen couldn't keep the smile off his face as he heard his brother chattering away as usual.

Christine sat at one end of the eight-foot rectangular table, with Annaliese and Marie-Lorraine seated to her right and Nicolas to her left. Stephen slid into the empty seat next to his brother and Erik took the chair at the head of the table.

Glancing at the four children seated before him, Erik fought to keep a proud smile off his face. Not all were of his blood, but each one owned a portion of his heart. Stephen was indeed the image of Raoul, and Erik knew deep down he was a good lad. Annaliese was a sweet combination of Christine and Raoul, but Erik knew that she loved him without reservation. She had inherited her grandfather's skills with the violin, but had shown no real interest in music. Marie-Lorraine had more than a touch of Erik's temper, but with the firm guidance of her parents, she kept it well under control. She had been blessed with her father's talent on the piano. And Nicolas—he was Erik's image, tall for his age with dark hair and sparkling blue eyes. He had been gifted with Christine's and Erik's talents for singing, often able to sing a complicated melody after hearing it only once or twice.

He was also the worst chatterbox on the face of the earth, according to his sisters. And at this moment, Christine was in complete agreement. "Nicolas!" she said sternly. "Hush!"

"But, Maman . . ."

"Nicolas." Erik spoke quietly, but his voice cut through all the noise, and the seven-year old boy fell silent immediately. "I believe it is your turn to say grace," continued Erik, adding, "And do not elaborate."

Christine coughed to hide a laugh, and suddenly the girls were extraordinarily interested in their empty plates. Stephen hid a smile behind his hand while he rubbed his nose as though it itched. The last time Nicolas had said grace, it had become a narrative of nearly five minutes.

"Yes, Papa," said Nicolas meekly, knowing better than to argue or disobey in any manner. Bowing his head, he spoke the familiar words in a subdued voice. "Bless us, oh Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive through Thy bounty, and Christ our Lord. Amen."

A chorus of "Amen" echoed around the table and Christine picked up the bowl of boiled potatoes that sat in front of her plate. After taking one, she passed the bowl to Marie-Lorraine. Standing, Erik picked up the carving knife that lay beside his plate and began to carve the enormous roasted turkey on the platter.

For the next several minutes, the only conversation around the table consisted of "Please pass" and "Thank you." Erik glanced toward his son and saw him fairly bouncing in his seat in excitement. Hoping fervently that he would not regret it, he asked, "Do you have something to tell us, Nicolas?"

Before the boy could respond, his mother said to him, "Remember, we are eating dinner."

"Yes, Maman. Guess what Stephen and I saw in the pond today, Papa? Pollywogs!" he exclaimed without taking a breath. "And Stephen said in a few weeks they would turn into frogs!"

Knowing all too well not to let the boy expound on the subject of pollywogs and frogs, Erik said, "We'll have to go and find them in a few weeks, then, won't we?" Immediately he turned his attention to his daughter, asking, "Marie-Lorraine, have you finished memorizing the rest of the sonatina you've been learning?"

She swallowed a bite of turkey then said quietly, "No, Papa, not yet. I am having difficulty with the last section. I cannot get the fingering right—my fingers end up all tangled."

"We will work on it together tomorrow morning." He and Christine had agreed that he would teach the children music only if they showed an interest, and only as long as they were interested. Christine had remarked on his patience yesterday, and he had merely shrugged in reply, before reminding her with a grin that she had been his prize student at one time.

"Annaliese, how are your studies in Italian coming along?" She had come to them with a request to learn Italian and German, in addition to the English all the children were studying. After only a few weeks, she had mastered a considerable list of vocabulary terms and several verbs in the present tense.

"Molto bene, Papa," she replied with a smile, and Erik nodded at her and winked. "Signor Albinoni has complimented my accent several times, and says I am the best pupil he has."

Across the table, Stephen tensed. It always angered him when he heard her call Erik 'Papa'. He is not your father! he thought hotly.

A voice in his head chided him, He is the only father she has ever known, to which he had no reply, save to glower at his plate.

"Don't you agree, Stephen?" The question caught him by surprise and he shook his head.

"I am sorry. My attention was elsewhere. Do I agree with what?"

"That the owner of Autumn's Rose will be a most fortunate person." Erik hid a smile as he looked at his stepson; he had already discussed the matter with Christine and she had had no objection. He would give the pretty bay mare to Stephen for his birthday in a few weeks.

"Yes, indeed," replied Stephen immediately, a touch of sadness in his eyes and in his voice. He had helped raise the filly from the time she was born; he had fallen in love with her as soon as she had gained her feet in the moments after her birth. "So you have decided to whom she is to be sold?" With effort he kept his voice even, but his heart was in millions of pieces. He knew Erik had received several generous offers, but still he wished . . .

Making only a hmmm of agreement, Erik changed the subject of the dinner conversation yet again, asking Christine how Meg and her new husband were getting along. She in turn relayed the contents of a letter she had received from Meg a day or two ago, and also told the family that Marie would be traveling to Venice to visit them in a few weeks' time.

The remainder of the meal passed in relative calm, and as soon as he had eaten a few bites of the chocolate mousse dessert, Stephen wiped his mouth and placed his napkin next to his plate. "May I be excused?" he asked his mother, who simply nodded in reply. He picked up his plate and went into the kitchen without another word.

Annaliese watched him leave the room with a slight frown between her eyes. "Maman, is something wrong? Stephen has been acting strangely the last few days."

Sighing, Christine looked at her eldest daughter and blessed her sweet, sensitive nature. "It is nothing to worry about, ma chére. You know how he loves Autumn's Rose; it's the thought of her leaving and never seeing her again, I think." She glanced around the table and saw that the other children had finished eating and gave them permission to leave the table.

The girls rose immediately and took their dessert plates into the kitchen, chattering about the horses and the assignments they needed to finish for their tutor. Nicolas remained at the table, looking first at Christine and then at Erik. "Do you have something to say to us, Nicolas?" asked Erik, knowing full well that literally anything might come from his younger son's mouth at any moment.

"I know what you're going to do!" the boy announced gleefully. "You're going to give Autumn to Stephen!"

"And what makes you think that, mon fils?" replied Erik, carefully keeping any inflection or emotion from his voice.

His son smirked at him. "I just do," he said, grinning wickedly, and to Christine's practiced eye, looking exactly like his father.

Before Erik could respond, she said in a no-nonsense tone, "You will keep your ideas to yourself, will you not, Nicolas?" Staring meaningfully at him, she waited until he nodded, and then she continued, "Good. Now take your plate to the kitchen and you may check on the puppies."

She waited until they had heard him pass noisily through the kitchen and slam the door before she said, "You had better go ahead and give Stephen that horse soon, before Nicky blurts it out."

Sighing, Erik pushed back from the table and laced his hands together across his washboard-flat belly. "Yes, I know," he murmured, shaking his head in dismay. "I suppose we should have known it would happen," he went on, making her look sharply at him.

"We should have known what?"

"That, after having three relatively malleable children, we would end up with one like Nicolas." She balled up her napkin and tossed it at him, which he dodged easily with a chuckle. Rising from his chair he walked purposefully toward her, and she sat calmly until he had nearly reached her.

Suddenly she bolted from her chair and almost made it past his reach, but his long arm snaked around her waist and pulled her back against his chest. Laughing, she reminded him, "We just finished dinner," and he merely growled and nipped her neck where it met her shoulder.

"Excuse me." Stephen's voice from the doorway made the both of them look up, wide, affectionate smiles on their faces. Erik straightened but left his arms around Christine's waist. She covered his hands with hers, giving them a gentle squeeze.

"You said we would look at the breeding book after dinner."

"So I did." Reluctantly releasing his wife, Erik looked down at her and she nodded. "Stephen, your mother and I would like to give you your birthday present now. We've decided that Autumn should belong to you."

After a moment of stunned silence, a huge smile covered the boy's face, chasing away the melancholy look that had been his constant companion for weeks. "Autumn . . . Autumn will be mine? Oh, Maman! Oh, Erik! Thank you, thank you!" Pulling Christine into his arms, he held her tight, blinking back tears. He looked up at Erik and whispered, "Thank you."

Simply nodding in reply, Erik thought, You are most welcome, son.


	3. Chapter 3

**Nothing But Love**

Chapter Three

Eighteen months later, October 1887

"Oh, no! Oh, Stephen, no!"

Christine heard Anna murmur brokenly and she pushed open the door to her daughter's bedroom. "What is it, Anna? I went to wake Stephen, but his bed has not been slept in." A shaft of dread stabbed through her as Anna leaped from her bed and flung herself into her mother's arms.

It took several seconds for Anna to calm down, and for Christine to notice the paper she held crumpled in her small hand. "What is it, Anna?" she repeated, her tone stern.

"Oh, Maman," sobbed the girl. "Stephen . . . he has run away."

Christine snatched the paper out of Anna's hand and unfolded it, her knees threatening to buckle at any moment. Quickly she scanned the note, her heart pounding.

" 'Dearest Maman, Anna, Marie, Nicky and Erik: I cannot live with it any longer. I cannot live with the guilt of knowing that I am responsible for the death of Autumn's colt. I cannot look at her, take care of her and not remember. So I am going away for a time, until I am able to find the courage to face you all again. I shall try to write to you. Stephen.' "

Bolting from the room, Christine literally ran into Erik, slamming against his broad chest. "What is the matter, Christine? Has something happened to Anna?" He caught her shoulders and kept her from falling.

Unable to speak, she thrust the note into his hand. The color drained from his face as he read the message, and immediately he pulled her into his arms, rocking her gently. He closed his eyes, and prayed—for the first time in quite some time. Dear God, help me! Help us all!

Feeling a hesitant touch on his shoulder, he opened his eyes and saw Anna standing next to them. He offered his arm to her and she gladly came into his embrace, holding tightly to both her mother and Erik. Softly he kissed the dark curls atop both heads, felt both of them trembling.

"He'll be all right," murmured Erik. "He's smart and resourceful."

Christine pulled out of his arms, her mind whirling. "Anna," she said urgently, "where did you find this note?"

Brushing the tears from her eyes, the girl swallowed. "It—it was lying on my pillow when I woke."

"Did you speak to Stephen last night? I know sometimes he comes to talk to you when something is troubling him." Christine cupped her daughter's chin in her hand and looked at her intently, searching for something—anything!—that would give them a clue as to where Stephen might have gone.

Fresh tears welled up in Anna's big blue eyes. "No, Maman," she whispered. "I am sorry!"

Immediately Erik drew them back into his embrace. "Hush, ma chére, it's not your fault," he said soothingly, dropping another kiss on Anna's head. Oh, Stephen, you had best have a glib explanation on your tongue when we find you!

Christine straightened, giving them a brave smile. "Well, this is not accomplishing anything. Anna, go back into your room and dress for breakfast, but say nothing to Marie or Nicky." Gently she kissed her daughter on both cheeks and wiped away the evidence of the girl's tears. "It will be all right, ma doux. Do not worry."

Obediently Anna went into her room and closed the door quietly. When it had closed, Erik slid an arm around Christine's shoulders and led her to their rooms, his heart aching as he felt the chill of her skin through her dressing gown.

As soon as he closed the door behind them he enfolded Christine in his arms and held her tightly as sobs racked her small frame. "Shhh, mon ange," he crooned, rubbing one hand up and down her back, hoping to calm her a little.

After a few moments, her sobs quieted and Erik gave her a final squeeze and released her. He offered her his handkerchief and she wiped her damp cheeks. Sniffling, she looked up at him, and he could not stop the chuckle that escaped him. His sweet angel looked quite fierce, and he did not envy Stephen at that moment.

"When we find that boy, he is going to be extremely sorry he put us through this!"

"Yes," agreed Erik solemnly. "I had already come to that conclusion myself." He paused a moment, then asked, "How much shall we tell Marie and Nicky?"

Sighing, she put her hand to her forehead. "Lord, I don't know! Marie will understand all that we tell her, and more, probably, but Nicky . . . I just don't know." She swayed and Erik scooped her up in his arms and carried her to one of the comfortable chairs that sat in front of the fireplace. Kneeling at her feet, he rubbed her hands between his to warm them.

Carefully he brushed her hair back from her face, his hand lingering as he cupped one cheek. "Mon coeur? Are you all right?" Realizing what he had said, he made a sound of disgust and started to speak again, but she touched his lips with a fingertip.

"No, it's all right. I knew what you meant to say, love. And . . . I don't know. Part of me is furious with him for running away, and part of me aches for him, the pain that he is feeling about Autumn."

Erik closed his eyes as he remembered the events of a few days earlier. "It was simply a horrible accident. We both told him that, again and again. Jacques told him, also, and you know how much Stephen reveres Jacques' opinion." He sighed deeply, and pushed to his feet, walked to the window and stared out at the brilliant blue October sky. "Let me go and speak with Jacques," he said after a moment. "Perhaps he will have some idea where Stephen might have gone. Just in case, I'll have him search the grounds, too. He may well be in one of the outbuildings."

"We will go and speak with Jacques," Christine retorted, and Erik turned to her with a smile.

"Of course, love; that is what I meant to say." He gave her an innocent look when she arched an eyebrow at him. Returning to her, he went down on one knee and took her hands in his. "Stephen is your first-born, Christine," he said quietly. "I would never exclude you from any of the plans to search for him."

Cupping his face in her hands, she stared deeply into his eyes, seeing his love and concern for her. "I know, Erik. I probably should warn you now, though—until we find him, my emotions will very likely be . . . unstable, to say the least."

He put his arms around her and drew her head down on his shoulder. "All right; I have been warned. Now, let us decide what to tell Marie and Nicky and then go to Jacques after breakfast."

They told Marie and Nicky that Stephen had decided to go to Venice to visit Meg, and Nicky pouted a bit that Stephen had not said good-bye to him. Marie looked at Erik sharply and opened her mouth to say something, but he shook his head at her, and she merely commented that she hoped Stephen would return home soon.

When the children had finished their omelettes, Erik gave them permission to leave the table and they went silently, even Nicky. Once they were alone, Christine pushed her plate back and blew out a deep breath. "Marie will no doubt question Anna about what is really happening. And Anna will tell her, I am certain, but they will not say anything to Nicky."

Sighing, she picked up her teacup, and had to set it back down immediately; her hand was trembling too much to be able for her to take a drink. "Oh, God, Erik! What if—"

"No." The word was quiet, but forceful nonetheless. "Do not even think it, Christine. Do not tempt fate that way." Rising, he walked to her and pulled her up out of her chair and into his arms. "We will find him, quickly, and he will be fine, and he will come home and work through his grief and guilt about Autumn's colt." After a moment she pulled back and gave him a tremulous smile, and he traced her cheek with a fingertip.

"Now, let us go speak with Jacques."

He started to release her but suddenly she moved back into his arms, and clung to him tightly. "Oh, my angel, my anchor, my love, what would I do without you?" she whispered.

* * *

"Mon Dieu!" Jacques crossed himself, and looked down at the straw on the stable floor. "Oh, madame, monsieur, I knew he was very upset about the death of Autumn's colt; indeed, we all were, but I had no idea . . ."

Christine put her hand on his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. "We do not blame you for any of this, Jacques. Please understand that. We know that what happened was simply a dreadful accident. But we need to know if . . . perhaps Stephen mentioned a place to you that he might have gone."

The stable master turned and stared out the open door of the stables, a frown creasing his face. "No, he mentioned no special place to me, but . . . he might have to Philippe. For all the difference in their ages, they are very good friends." Walking out to the paddock, he shaded his eyes against the sun, looking for the young man who was his trusted assistant. Seeing him exercising a young mare, Jacques put his fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly.

"Philippe! I need to speak with you—now!" shouted Jacques, and the young man raised his hand in acknowledgement and began to ride toward them.

"That is Brandy's foal, is it not?" asked Erik, seeing in the graceful lines and fluid movement the first horse he had bought, over fourteen years ago.

"Yes, that is Misty Dawn, her last foal, now two years old." They walked outside and Philippe rode up to them, patting the horse's neck as they came to a stop.

Philippe swung down from her back, and Erik took the bridle, rubbing her head between her eyes. She bobbed her head and began to snuffle at his shirt pockets, looking for the lump of sugar that he usually brought her. "Sorry, ma belle, nothing for you today," he murmured.

Turning to the younger man, Erik said bluntly, "Stephen has run away from home, and we thought you might have an idea of where he has gone." He studied Philippe's face carefully as he spoke, and saw the shock and surprise in his eyes at the news. So he told no one of his plans, he thought, not even Anna. This was a decision he made suddenly, or I miss my guess.

"Oh, madame, monsieur, I am so sorry! Truly, if I knew anything that would help you, I would tell you instantly. You have been so good to me and my family, I –"

"It's all right, Philippe; we believe you." Christine spoke quietly. She turned back to Jacques, adding, "Would you organize a search of the grounds? But do it discreetly, please. We do not want everyone to know that Stephen is gone."

"Mais oui, madame. I will choose a few others besides Philippe who can be trusted to keep this to themselves."

A few hours later, he reported to Erik and Christine that every building on the grounds had been searched, to no avail. Stephen was nowhere on the property. As he turned to leave, he had a thought. "I know Stephen enjoyed going to the orphanage, madame, monsieur. He spoke of it every time you all went there, even when it was for no particular reason. Perhaps he has gone there."

Christine gave him a tiny smile. "We will search there next, Jacques. Thank you for the suggestion. And thank the others, especially for their silence, at least for now."


	4. Chapter 4

**Nothing But Love**

**Re-posted with hopefully some improvements.**

Chapter Four

Stephen smiled to himself as every kitten in the stables seemed to converge on the girl who had sunk to her knees almost directly beneath where he was hiding. He remembered her from the Bastille Day celebrations three months ago; because they were a similar height, they had been paired together in the three-legged race and they had won. Her name was . . . Thérèse, he remembered now.

"Ouch!" she muttered, lifting a solid black kitten until they were nose to nose. "That hurt," she told it mildly; its only response was to bat at the auburn curl that had fallen down over her forehead. Another kitten took the opportunity to scramble up her arm to her shoulder, and she scooped it up with a soft laugh.

Suddenly her gaze shot upward. Something—or someone—had caused some hay from the loft to sift down on top of her. Slowly she got to her feet, a kitten in each hand. "Who is there?" Thérèse demanded.

Cursing the sudden itching on the bottom of his foot that had made him move, Stephen held his breath. Go away, he thought, willing her to obey. Go back to the main house.

He groaned silently when she stooped to place the kittens on the straw and started toward the ladder that led to the loft. Bothersome creatures, girls, he thought disgustedly.

He tried to scoot further back under the eave, into the shadows, but her head popped over the edge of the loft before he could get out of sight. Sighing, he sat up straight and stared past her as she walked toward him.

"Well, Monsieur le Vicomte, what are you doing here?" Her question made his head jerk up and he glared at her.

"My name is Stephen, as you know very well, Thérèse. I will not come into the title until I am twenty-one."

She stood looking down at him for a moment then sank down on the straw a short distance away. "That does not answer my question." Glancing behind him, she saw the blanketed bundle, and let out a deep sigh. "Do not say that you have run away from home," she murmured, shaking her head.

"And what if I have? It is no concern of yours." Pushing to his feet, he strode to the edge of the loft and looked down, seeing nothing that was before him. He saw only Autumn and the colt she had borne, and the colt as it lay dying from colic. Clenching his fists, he swallowed hard. Forgive me, Autumn. Forgive me, Lord, for my stupidity.

He jumped when Thérèse touched him on the shoulder. Her big brown eyes sincere, she said softly, "I have often been told that I am an excellent listener. Please, tell me what happened. Sometimes it is easier to talk to a stranger than someone you know."

Stephen folded his arms across his chest as if to ward off a blow. "You know that the weather has been unusually warm for this time of year," he began, his voice low and rough. "I took Autumn out for some exercise and naturally, her colt, Star, followed us. He . . . he was five months old." His arms dropped to his sides and his hands clenched into tight fists. "We—we were walking slowly back to the stable. I was trying to let Autumn cool down a little. And—and Star ran ahead of us to the watering trough and began to drink, too quickly, and . . . since he had not cooled down, he . . ." Stephen's tall, lanky body vibrated with pent-up emotion.

Angrily he swiped at the tears that had run down his cheeks. "He got colic, and it killed him."

Her eyes filled with tears and she squeezed his shoulder briefly before he shrugged off her touch. "Oh, Stephen, how horrible! But . . . it was an accident! It sounds to me as though you could not have stopped him from drinking."

"Perhaps, and perhaps not. In any case, it doesn't matter," he gritted out. "The colt is still dead and it is still my fault! I cannot look at Autumn and not remember. I—I thought leaving for a time would be the right thing, but . . ."

"Now you are having doubts, aren't you?" He nodded once, and then his stomach growled, loudly, startling a smile from her.

Thérèse started toward the ladder then looked back over her shoulder. "If I go to the kitchen and get some food, will you be here when I return?" His blue eyes solemn, he nodded slowly, and she slipped down the ladder and out the stable door. She returned several minutes later, with a portion of cold roast beef and some boiled potatoes wrapped in a cloth. They sat with their shoulders touching and shared the food, eating with their fingers and chatting but avoiding the subject of Autumn.

The chapel bell rang five times, and Thérèse jumped up with a soft exclamation. "Oh, is it time for vespers already? I must go, but I will try to return later tonight."

* * *

"Pardon, ma mère, but you have visitors!" Her brown eyes huge behind her glasses, the young nun burst through the partially-open door of the office and skidded to an undignified stop in front of the big desk.

The older woman who sat behind it calmly put down her pen and folded her hands together on the desk's cluttered top. "Have a care, child," she admonished gently, a tiny smile on her face. "Take a deep breath," she added, "hold it . . . now exhale slowly, Soeur Simone." When the young nun had complied, Mère Geneviève stood and came around the end of the desk. "And who are my visitors, child?"

"Monsieur and Madame Montenegro, Mère!" said Soeur Simone excitedly.

At that bit of news the director of Our Lady of the Angels orphanage straightened her wimple and brushed imaginary dirt from the skirt of her habit. "Bring them here immediately, my child, and then go to the kitchen and fetch a pot of tea."

"Oui, ma mère," the young woman murmured and scurried away to do as she had been told. Within moments she ushered Christine and Erik into the office, and Mère Geneviève met them with a wide smile and bade them sit down.

"Christine, and Erik, please come in. What a pleasant surprise! What brings you here this morning? The children are all well, I trust? What has that scamp Nicolas done lately?"

Christine took Erik's hand and held it tightly. Swallowing hard, she looked at the kindly older woman and smiled sadly. "No, my friend, I am very much afraid that all is not well with the children. Stephen . . ." She swallowed again, tears glistening in her eyes, and Erik took up the tale.

"Stephen has run away from home, Mère." He paused as the young nun returned with a tray holding a teapot and three cups. Waiting until she had set it carefully on the desk and had retreated, he continued, "There was . . . a tragic accident involving his horse's colt, and the colt had to be put down. Stephen blames himself and has left home. We would like to search the grounds—we believe he might have come here."

Stopping in the act of pouring the tea, Mère Geneviève whispered, "Oh, my poor dears!" She set the pot down and made the sign of the cross, murmuring a quick prayer. "You know you do not need my permission to search the grounds, mes chéres. Please, search where you will." After a moment she added, "Believe me, I want to talk to that young man when you find him!"

They stood, preparing to leave the office, and she pulled Christine into her embrace, the two women sharing a few soft words. Christine nodded and gave her a tiny, brave smile when they parted. The older woman took Erik's hand and gave it a hard squeeze. "He will be fine," she said firmly, looking deeply into Erik's eyes, and he nodded in agreement.

God himself would not dare argue with Mère Geneviève, he thought, smiling to himself.

They went out into the corridor and Mère said, "I suppose you'll want to start in the stables. I'll send one of the boys to find Charles, the stable hand." She poked her head into one of the small rooms set aside for reading and studying and a few seconds later a boy hurried past them.

No one saw the tall teenaged girl slip out the door behind him.

* * *

"Stephen!" He jerked his head up, surprised that Thérèse had returned so soon. It had not been an hour since she had brought him a warm croissant and a small jug of milk. She came hurrying across the stable floor below him, visible at times through the cracks in the boards that made up the floor of the loft.

Quickly he stuffed the book he'd been reading back into his bundle, and went to the ladder at the edge of the loft. Her head appeared over the edge just as he arrived, and he held out a hand to her, helping her step off the ladder. "What is it, Thérèse?"

Her chest heaving at the exertion of running the last few yards, she held up a hand, fending off his questions until she regained her breath. "Your mother and step-father are here," she said, "looking for you!"

Stephen's eyes widened at that and he backed away from the edge of the loft, heading back into the portion that remained in the shadows. "No," he whispered, shaking his head wildly, "I cannot face them, not yet."

"Shhh!" said Thérèse suddenly. "They are almost at the door." Grabbing his upper arms she pushed him further back from the edge. "Do not make a sound," she told him needlessly, and went back to the ladder, descending before he could gather his thoughts.

Charles, the stable hand, called to her. "Thérèse, come here. This is Madame and Monsieur Montenegro, the orphanage's patrons. They are looking for their son, Stephen. Have you seen him?"

Thérèse had seen both Christine and Erik at different events at the orphanage, but only from a distance. She looked both of them squarely in the eye, neither frightened nor surprised by the scars on Erik's right cheek. She curtseyed, and greeted them politely. "Madame, Monsieur. Yes, I have seen your son." Seeing the relieved look that flashed across both faces, she forced herself to lie to them. "But he is no longer here. I brought him some food last night from the kitchen, and when I came to bring him a little more this morning, he was gone."

The little moan that escaped Christine made Thérèse's heart ache, and silently she chastised Stephen for doing this to his parents. "We did . . . talk for some time last night, madame, and he told me what had happened, why he believed he must leave home. I tried to convince him to return, that he was breaking your heart, but he would not listen to me."

Erik had slid his arm around Christine's waist when she moaned, and he held her tightly against his side. "Thank you, Thérèse, for trying. Stephen can be . . . a little headstrong."

"Was he all right? Did he seem well to you?" The questions came softly from Christine, and Thérèse was glad to be able to answer this honestly, at least.

"Yes, madame, he seemed well physically. But what happened to the colt is weighing heavily on him, as you know." She fell silent for a moment, before adding, "He made no mention of where he might go next; I am sorry."

She waited until Christine and Erik had been gone from sight for several minutes before she flew up the ladder to the loft, angry words ready to spill from her lips. "How can you do this to them?" she hissed at Stephen's back, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him around. "Do you not realize what you are throwing away with both hands?" When he did not respond she poked him in the chest with her index finger. "Poor little vicomte," she said sarcastically. "He cannot live with the fact that he made a mistake and it cost an animal its life, so he runs away, never giving a thought to what his parents—"

The rest of what she was going to say was lost in a gasp when Stephen grabbed her upper arms, giving her a hard shake. "Stop it!" he ground out. The defiant look in her brown eyes and the arrogant tilt of her chin almost dared him to shake her again. Suddenly realizing what he had done, he released her, backing away and moving to where he had dropped his bundle.

"I—I am sorry, Thérèse. Please forgive me if I startled you." He paused and blew out a breath. "Yes, I do know what I am 'throwing away', as you put it. And I also know that Maman and Erik are very worried about me. I—I cannot explain why I feel the way I do, why I must leave home—I simply know that it is what I have to do." Please, Lord, forgive me for hurting them.

Picking up his bundle, he moved past Thérèse to the ladder and began to descend. He stopped and looked up at her, his blue eyes bright with unshed tears. "Thank you, for not telling them I was here," he told her quietly. "I hope I will be able to return the favor someday. Adieu, Thérèse."


	5. Chapter 5

**Nothing But Love**

Chapter Five

Erik and Christine stopped briefly on their way out to inform Mère that Stephen had not been found. "Oh, mes chéres," she sighed, "I so hoped he was here." She took their hands in hers and squeezed. "As I said earlier, he will be fine—and I still want to speak with him!" she added in an aggravated tone.

She walked out with them, embracing them both before they climbed in the buggy. Erik untied the reins and he and Christine waved as he set the vehicle in motion and they went down the drive.

Christine slumped on the seat and wiped at the tears that slipped down her cheeks. "Oh, Erik," she whispered. "I was so certain he was there."

Opening his mouth to reply, he thought better of what he had been about to say, pulling her tight against his side instead. And I would wager that the girl, Thèrése, knew more that she told us, he mused. Aloud, he asked, "Do you feel like going into the city, love, to see Jean-Marc, and perhaps his detective?"

She straightened and her face brightened as she nodded eagerly. "Yes, please! It has been some time since we have visited with him." The wily old solicitor had officially retired, but he still went into the office at least one day a week.

They went to his office and indeed he was there, patiently instructing one of the new clerks on the proper procedure for filing documents. After setting the clerk to a fairly difficult task, he ushered Erik and Christine into his office, closing the door firmly behind them. Grasping Christine's hand, he kissed the back of it, saying, "And how are my favorite grandchildren?"

The question brought tears to her eyes, and Erik spoke tiredly. "Stephen has run away, Jean-Marc, and we have no idea where he has gone." Quietly he explained about the death of the colt, the note Anna had found, and their stop at the orphanage. "Our next thought was to come to you, to see if you had found a detective to replace your friend who moved to Marseille."

The old man frowned heavily. "Unfortunately, none of the men claiming to be detectives these days could find a mouse in a trap. The only one who is reasonably competent is Louis Chalfont, and I am sorry to say, I do not trust him any further than I could throw him."

"There's no one else?" asked Christine desperately. "No one in all of Paris?"

Jean-Marc shook his head sadly. "No, my dear, I fear not."

She looked at Erik and he fought to keep from promising her to move heaven and earth to find Stephen. Glancing at the older man, he said, "If we decide to go and speak with him, will you come with us?"

"Just try and stop me!"

* * *

Chalfont's office, if it could be termed such, was located on the second floor of a dilapidated building near the red-light district of the city. As they climbed out of the carriage, Christine pressed close to Erik, feeling gooseflesh rise on her arms and chills race down her spine. "Dear God," she murmured.

Jean-Marc led the way up the narrow stairs, and Christine lifted her skirts well above each riser as she went. Erik followed closely behind her, his attention keenly focused on their surroundings. Something about this part of the city, something almost tangible in the air, made him wary in a way that he had not been in years.

A whiskey- and smoke-roughened voice bade them enter when Jean-Marc knocked on the door. They entered a small, smoke-filled room, and Christine coughed and pressed her handkerchief to her nose immediately. Without a word Erik went to the grimy window and wrestled it open a few inches.

"So, Gaspard, what do you want?" The man remained seated behind the desk, which was covered with piles of papers nearly as grimy as the window. As he spoke he maneuvered the foul-smelling cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, sending a cloud of smoke out into the room, making Christine cough again. Gingerly she perched on one of the rickety chairs and Jean-Marc took the other. Erik stood behind them, arms folded across his chest.

The solicitor spoke tersely. "This is Christine and Erik Montenegro. Their eldest, Stephen, has run away from home and they want him found immediately."

Chalfont scribbled on a piece of paper and gave them a sharp look. "His age?" he grunted and added that to his notes as Christine told him Stephen had turned fifteen a few months earlier. "Physical description? Hair, eyes, any marks or . . . scars?" he added, glancing at Erik with a smirk.

Christine bristled at his tone and opened her mouth to put the man in his place, but Erik reached down and took her hand, stopping her with a tiny smile. "It's all right, love," he murmured. Addressing Chalfont, he continued in a colder tone, "Stephen is my step-son, as you well know, monsieur. His height—approximately 5 feet, 11 inches. Hair, brown, eyes, blue. He is left-handed and he loves animals, especially horses."

Making more grunting noises, the detective shifted the cigar again. "Got a photograph?" he mumbled. "Any type of picture, portrait of him?"

"We could supply you with one, yes." Christine hid a smile at that; her Angel had become the Phantom.

"Looked anywhere on your own already?"

"Yes," replied Erik tersely, his patience waning rapidly. "We have searched all the buildings on our property carefully and also Our Lady of the Angels orphanage." Bracing his hands on the back of Christine's chair, he glared at Chalfont until a bit of the bravado went out of the other man, making him swallow and clear his throat nervously.

"Um . . . yes, well . . . my usual fee for missing persons is 1,000 francs. Half when I agree to take the case and the rest when the person is located."

"Indeed." Before either Christine or Jean-Marc could exclaim at the exorbitant price, Erik offered his hand to his wife and she rose gracefully to her feet. He turned his back on the detective, saying over his shoulder, "If we agree, a messenger will arrive with a bank draft for 500 francs." Opening the door, he stepped aside and let the others precede him out, then pulled it shut behind him.

"Erik, what in the world are you—" began Christine in a furious whisper before he touched his lips in a hushing gesture. She closed her mouth with a snap, her eyes sparkling angrily.

"Wait until we are outside, love. I fear the walls have ears." With that he tucked her hand over his arm and led her down the stairs and out into the street. Once they had driven several blocks, Erik spoke. "I am loathe to give him five sous, let alone 500 francs. But . . . do we have any other option?"

Several more blocks passed before Jean-Marc replied. "Let me do a little investigating of my own. I might know of one other person."

Two sets of hopeful eyes turned to him and he gave a little more explanation. "Recently I heard from a former client, a retired Pinkerton detective from America. You have heard of Allan Pinkerton's agency in the United States?"

Erik nodded and Christine shook her head 'no', making the old man chuckle. For her benefit he told the story of the transplanted Scotsman and his detective agency briefly, adding, "Jack Templeton—the client I mentioned—his mother was French and he asked me to handle her small estate after she had died a few years ago."

"You said he is retired? How old is he? Would he be able physically to search for Stephen?" The questions came rapidly and Jean-Marc began to feel just a bit better about the entire situation.

"Yes, I believe so. He was wounded during his last case, shortly before his mother's death, and after he recovered he contacted me about her estate and we corresponded a bit. He told me at that time he had decided he needed a little less excitement in his life." By this time they had arrived back at the solicitor's office and he added, "Come in and I'll tell you the rest of what I know about him over tea."

They settled in Jean-Marc's private office with a pot of tea and he sat back, gathering his thoughts. "Jack is 50 or 51 years old, I believe. He was shot in the leg but he recovered fully, except for a slight limp when the weather is cold and damp."

"He is in Paris now?" interrupted Christine, clutching Erik's hand tightly. "Might we speak with him?"

Setting down his cup, Jean-Marc rummaged around and found a dog-eared envelope. He pulled a sheet of paper from it and skimmed over it, reading aloud as he went. " 'I plan to be in Paris in a week or so and would like to call on you, if I may.' This was dated ten days ago, but I've not heard anything more from him."

* * *

"Wake up, boy." The business end of a pitchfork prodded Stephen none too gently in the backside.

Slowly he moved away from it, and sat up, facing a squat, scowling man. Continuing to move slowly, Stephen stood, towering over the man by nearly a foot.

The man's mouth lost a bit of its sneer as he watched the boy unfold himself to his full height. "What's your name, boy?" he demanded, pressing the tines of the pitchfork into Stephen's stomach just enough to be felt.

The boy swallowed and found his tongue. "Stephen," he said, fervently glad that his voice didn't crack.

"Got a last name, don't you?"

Thinking fast, Stephen nodded. "Valmont. My name is Stephen Valmont."

"You looking for a job?" The squat man looked him up and down, trying to judge how much work he could get out of the boy, and how much he would have to feed him. When the boy nodded, the man went on, "Got any experience with animals? Cows? Sheep? Horses?"

At the mention of 'horses', Stephen felt his stomach muscles clench, but he nodded again, and said, "Yes, monsieur, I have tended animals before."

"Then I don't need to tell you what to do with this." With that the man handed the pitchfork to him and turned away. Back over his shoulder he muttered, "There's a room with a cot in it at the other end of the barn—or you can sleep in the loft. Makes me no difference. Breakfast is at 5:30, lunch at noon, dinner at 6. Don't be late."

Within minutes Stephen had moved his bundle of belongings to the small room with the cot, glad to find a small lamp in the room also, along with a pitcher and wash bowl. Hearing the animals moving about, he went out to get acquainted with them.

Soon he was nursing a set of blisters and a sore spot on his leg from the cow, a decidedly unfriendly beast if he'd ever seen one. "For your sake and mine, I hope I don't have to milk you," he muttered, rubbing the place where she'd nipped at him. She eyed him suspiciously and went back to chewing her cud.

In the last stall was a small black mare, hugely pregnant. "Oh, God," whispered Stephen when he saw her. Images of Autumn flooded his mind, and he sagged against the stall door, breathing shallowly, his eyes closed. He jerked when he felt puffs of air against his fingers and somehow managed to keep from pulling his hand away. Slowly he opened his eyes to see the mare had come over to him and was sniffing at his fingers, which were clenched over the top of the door.

Immediately he began to murmur to her, using the same calm, even tone and phrases he had used with Autumn. Huge brown eyes stared back at him, and he swore he could see curiosity in them. "Hello, ma belle," he said, "my name is Stephen."

"Who are you and what are you doing to Midnight's Lady?" came a belligerent voice from behind him and he whirled around to see a girl, a child of no more than eight years, standing a few feet away, a carrot dangling from her tiny hand.

"I am Stephen Valmont, and I was just hired to work here," he replied, adding, "And just who are you, mademoiselle?"

Ignoring his question, she turned and stomped out, saying over her shoulder, "We shall just see about that!"


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Happy Holidays to you all! It may be a bit longer before the next chapter is posted, but I hope you will keep checking to see if there's anything new. Thanks to all who have reviewed, and to you lurkers, too.

**Nothing But Love**

Chapter Six

Grinning, Stephen watched as the little girl stomped out of the stables. Physically, of course, she did not resemble Nicolas, but she certainly acted like him. The tiny ache in the region of his heart made him frown, and wonder how Nicky and the girls and Maman and Erik were.

He picked up a brush and slowly began to groom the small black mare. "So," he said quietly, "you are Midnight's Lady." He chuckled when she bobbed her head and he stroked down her neck and shoulders carefully. "It looks as though your baby will be here soon," he continued, his voice a low, soothing rumble. A moment passed then his hand froze mid-stroke. Sainte Mère, he thought with a jolt. How many times have I watched and listened as Erik did these same things?

A sudden clanging sound made him lay the brush aside and go to the stable door. Using a hammer to strike an iron wheel hanging on a post near the house was a statuesque woman with gray-streaked red hair. Immediately the squat man who had prodded him with the pitchfork appeared from the other side of the house, followed by two taller versions of himself.

Slowly Stephen walked to the house, beginning to smell the enticing aroma of fried ham. He quickened his pace, arriving at the back door just seconds after the farmer. Almost immediately the girl began jabbering at the man, who Stephen presumed was her father.

After a minute the man held up a hand to stop the flow of words. "Enough, Jolie, the boy stays and he will do what I tell him to do—either me or your brothers. And that is the end of it, do you understand me?"

Pouting, Jolie replied, "Yes, Papa." Mutinously she glanced up through her lashes and caught Stephen's gaze. I will be watching your every move, her glare told him.

"Come on, boy, the food's getting cold." The farmer jerked his chin toward the door and Stephen followed them eagerly. Pointing around the table, the man made introductions. "My name is Victor Chalfont and these are my children—Francois, Richard and Jolie. This is the cook, Sara Jane."

The tall red-haired woman nodded at him and gave him a friendly smile. "Glad to meetcha," she said in English, with an accent he did not recognize. "Well, eat up while it's hot," she said to the group at large. "Food ain't no good when it's cold."

Head down, Stephen concentrated on his plate and devoured the food, which was plain fare but tasted wonderful. When Victor had finished, he pushed his plate back and leaned his elbows on the scarred table, staring directly at Stephen.

"So, boy, tell us how you ended up here, in my stable."

Swallowing hard, he laid his knife and fork beside his plate. "I walked," he answered simply. "The last place I remember passing through was Chartres. I think—I think I walked for two or three days after that."

"You wanted by the law?"

"No! No, monsieur, not as far as I know. I mean, I have not stolen anything, or . . . anything like that."

"You got family that's going to come looking for you?"

* * *

Two weeks passed excruciatingly slowly, on leaden feet. Christine's moods seemed to vary literally from one moment to the next—weepy, angry, remorseful. More than once Erik had thought to himself that her description of her emotions as 'unstable' was the understatement of the year.

He did his best to do whatever she asked, but this afternoon he felt a storm brewing, and not only in regard to the unseasonably warm weather that the countryside had been experiencing. Christine had spoken harshly to Anna, and she had come running to him in tears.

Even though she was nearing her thirteenth birthday, Erik sat down on the love seat in his study and pulled the girl onto his lap, let her sob out her pain on his shoulder.

Brushing back the curls that were exactly like her mother's, he kissed her on the forehead softly, rubbing the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs. "Now, ma belle, tell me again what happened."

"Oh, Papa, I am sorry! I know Maman is so worried about Stephen, and that I should just ignore her when she is . . . abrupt, but . . ."

"What did she say, Anna?"

The girl swallowed and sat up a little straighter. "She—she had been in your rooms since just after breakfast, and . . . I was worried about her, and the door was ajar, so I went inside. Maman was standing in front of the window, and I just asked her if she was all right, and . . ."

Fresh tears slid down Anna's cheeks and she swiped at them with the heels of her hands. "And she turned around and . . . shouted at me, Papa! Shouted at me to leave her alone."

Sighing inwardly, Erik pressed her head back down on his shoulder, murmuring soothingly. "It's all right, ma petite. You know that she did not intend to hurt you." After a moment Anna sat up and gave him a shaky smile. "That's my sweet girl," he said, tapping the end of her nose.

Awkwardly she climbed off his lap and they both stood, walking to the door arm in arm. Neither noticed the small boy-sized shadow that followed them.

* * *

Hand raised to knock, Erik changed his mind and simply opened the door instead. Closing it silently behind him, he turned the lock. This is one discussion that will not be interrupted, he thought grimly.

"I know what you're thinking." Her voice came from the grouping of furniture in front of the fireplace.

"Indeed," he replied coolly, in what she had once laughingly called his Phantom voice.

Slowly she sat up and looked at him over the back of the small sofa. "Yes," she said wearily. "How could I have shouted so at Anna." Tears filled her eyes rapidly and overflowed; she paid them no heed. "Do you not think I have asked myself that a hundred times she since ran from this room crying?"

Moving as if every bone and joint in her body ached, Christine got to her feet and stood staring into the flames burning on the hearth. "Oh, God, where is he? Is he all right? And why the hell haven't we heard from Jean-Marc about this Templeton?"

Erik stood and watched her, listening with a heavy heart as her emotions once again ran the gamut from lachrymose to angry in the space of a few seconds' time.

She began to pace, muttering fiercely to herself, waving her hands in the air. When she came within arms' reach of him, he grabbed her shoulders, giving her a hard shake. "Christine, stop it!" he ordered roughly. "This attitude of yours is not helping."

"My attitude!" she sputtered, shrugging off his grip. "At least I have an attitude! Unlike you—you don't seem to give a damn if we find him or not."

Before he could stop it, his hand shot out and slapped her. Her mouth dropped open in shock and he stared at his hand as if it were some alien thing attached to his arm.

After a moment of stunned silence, they both spoke at once, their words tumbling over each other in their shock.

"Oh, God, oh, God, Christine, are you all right? Did I hurt you?"

"Oh, Erik, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I know you care—I know you do!"

Neither was aware of moving but suddenly they were holding tightly to each other, tears streaming down both faces.

"I'm so sorry, my love," whispered Christine raggedly. "I feel . . . so helpless, so frustrated that there does not seem to be anything more we can do. I know I am behaving abominably, but . . . I cannot seem to stop myself!" Pulling back a few inches, she wiped the tears from his scarred cheek with her fingertips. "Please, Angel, help me?"

Burying his face in her curls, Erik fought to keep control of his emotions. After a moment he raised his head and moved back a few inches, gently rubbing his thumb over the angry red mark on her cheek made by his hand. "Oh, God!" he moaned softly. "I struck you, Christine! I . . . Can you ever forgive me, mon coeur?"

"Only if you will forgive me for the horrible way I have been acting."

There was a small commotion outside the door then Marie's voice came loudly to them. "Nicolas Gerard Montenegro! What are you doing listening at the keyhole of Maman's and Papa's room?"

They looked at each other then burst out laughing, deep, cleansing belly laughs that brought a different kind of tears to their eyes. Christine came into Erik's arms and he held her tightly against him for a few seconds, releasing her only when Marie knocked on the door.

"Maman, Papa, I am sorry to disturb you, but Mère Geneviève and one of the girls from the orphanage are here. They insist on seeing you."

Christine's eyes widened at the words 'girl from the orphanage', and she and Erik moved to the door hurriedly. Opening the door slightly, she said, "Please take them into the parlor, Marie, and offer them some tea. Your papa and I will be there shortly."

From just behind her shoulder Erik added, "And you, Nicolas, you will go to your room and wait for Maman and me to come to you." When his son opened his mouth to argue, Erik said evenly, "Not a word, Nicolas, or you will soon regret it."

Hiding a grin as the boy turned toward his room, grumbling under his breath about nosy sisters, Erik grasped Christine's hand and gave it a hard squeeze. "How much would you be willing to wager that the girl is Thèrése?" he asked, immensely happy to see a tiny smile flit across her face.

"Oh, no! No more bets with you," she retorted. "Not after what happened the last time." Hand in hand they went downstairs to the parlor, where Mère and Thèrése waited for them. When they entered the room, immediately the girl stood and curtseyed to them.

"Madame, Monsieur," she said quietly. "I have received a note from Stephen."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Since it has been a while between postings, "a brief reminder" that Mere and Therese arrived at the end of Chapter Six with a note from Stephen...**

**Nothing But Love**

Chapter Seven

Reaching into her skirt pocket, Thèrése pulled out a folded square of paper and handed it to Christine. "I received this yesterday," she said softly, "and knew I must bring it to you as soon as I could."

Hungrily Christine scanned the brief note, Erik reading over her shoulder, his hands resting gently on her waist as she read aloud. " 'Thèrése, please go to Maman and Erik and tell them that you have heard from me and that I am well. Merci, Stephen.' " Sadly, she murmured, "There is no date, no indication of where he is."

Erik wrapped his arms around her, held her tightly against him. "No," he said, "but he did write, to try to reassure us that he is well." Turning his attention to the girl, he asked, "How did this come to you, Thèrése? Did someone bring it to you?"

"No, Monsieur," she answered with a shake of her head. "It arrived in the regular post yesterday."

Christine moved out of Erik's embrace and reached out to grasp both of the girl's hands in hers. "Merci, Thèrése, for bringing this to us immediately." A tear fell and splashed on their joined hands.

"I am so very sorry, Madame," she replied in a sad whisper. "I would do anything to return him to you."

Mère spoke for the first time. "Come, children, and sit down." She patted the sofa next to her and obediently Thèrése sank down beside her.

Erik and Christine perched on the edge of the loveseat opposite them and she reached out to pour the tea. But when she tried to pick up the pot, it wobbled dangerously and she set it down with a thud.

"If you will allow me, Madame, may I pour?" Thèrése asked gently, receiving a grateful nod from Christine and a small encouraging smile from Erik. Efficiently she poured four cups, serving them first, then Mère and lastly herself.

"Well done, child," murmured Mère after she had taken several sips. "Now," she continued, focusing her attention sharply on Erik and Christine, "just what steps have you taken to find our missing lad?"

They exchanged a sheepish look and Erik cleared his throat. "Other than to search the grounds here and at the orphanage thoroughly, not very much." He held up a hand to forestall the outburst he knew was forthcoming. "We are waiting to hear from Jean-Marc Gaspard about a retired Pinkerton detective from America. The only other available detective—and I use the term quite loosely—was Louis Chalfont, and we decided he did not meet our needs."

"Chalfont! Pah! If it were not so undignified, I would spit at the mention of his name," replied the nun indignantly, startling a short bark of laughter from Erik.

"Yes, well . . . That was essentially our opinion of him, also."

"He is nothing but a vile cochon!" The words burst from Thèrése, surprising the three adults.

Erik recovered first, speaking gently to her. "And what makes you say that, chere? Not from . . . personal experience, I hope."

Blowing out a deep breath, she answered a little more calmly. "No, Monsieur; at least not the type to which I believe you refer. I lived with my aunt after my parents died. She was a seamstress and her shop was a few blocks from Chalfont's office. When she first became ill, he came around, feigning concern while he checked the shop for anything he thought he could steal. And . . . I caught him looking at me, also, when he thought I was not watching him."

Mère took up the story. "And no sooner had Thèrése's aunt passed away than that . . . rat turned up, claiming that she had sold the shop to him—"

"Which was a damned lie!" spat the girl then ashamedly she added, "Pardon, Mère, Madame, Monsieur."

Clearing her throat, Mère continued. "Thèrése's aunt had the foresight to contact me, when the doctors told her there was little hope of a recovery, and when Thèrése came to me with the news of her death, I insisted that she remain with us for the night. By the time we returned the next morning to collect her belongings and make arrangements for the burial, Chalfont had moved in and we were powerless to evict him."

Erik surged to his feet and stalked to the fireplace. "Sale bâtard!" Immediately he whipped around and dipped his head. "Pardon, Mère, ladies."

Christine rose and joined the others on the sofa. "Thank God your aunt had contacted Mère," she said, squeezing Thèrése's hand.

"And thank God—and you, Madame and Monsieur—that Our Lady of the Angels was there, also." She gave them a huge smile. "I love living there, and especially helping the younger children learn to read."

The mantel clock chimed softly five times and almost immediately a rumble of thunder boomed outside, followed by the pounding of rain on the roof. "Please, join us for dinner," said Christine.

Erik echoed the invitation, adding, "If the rain continues, you know you are more than welcome to spend the night, also. Now we must take care of an important matter that we have postponed for too long."

"Nicolas again?" asked Mère with a tiny smile and Christine nodded ruefully as she rose from the sofa and walked to the door.

"I am afraid so," she murmured, "and I think this will be quite an eventful discussion." She gave the nun a wry smile. "Sometimes I despair of him ever growing up—and then I think of Stephen, who has grown up much too fast, it seems."

* * *

Nicolas sat slouched in the window seat of his room, staring sullenly at the rain falling on the gardens and the buildings that were at the rear of the house. "Having two older sisters just is not fair," he muttered.

"Perhaps not, but since there is nothing you can do about it, you will have to learn to live with it," responded Erik calmly, closing the door behind him as Christine walked toward their son.

Startled, the boy scrambled to his feet, standing almost at attention. Erik fought to keep a grin off his face and succeeded—barely. Motioning for Nicolas to sit down, he pulled two chairs over and the three of them sat with their knees nearly touching.

"All right, mon fils," said Christine. "We are waiting to hear your explanation for your actions this afternoon."

Suddenly ashamed, and more than a little worried about what his punishment would be, Nicolas swallowed hard. "I—I was in your study this afternoon, Papa, when Anna ran in crying. I heard her say that Maman is worried about Stephen and I—I just wanted to know why. Did something happen to him at Tante Meg's in Venice?"

His parents looked at each other, asking and answering questions in a single glance. Erik turned to Nicolas and said, "Stephen is not at Tante Meg's. He ran away from home and we do not know where he is."

* * *

"Between you and Jolie, you're gonna brush all the hair right off that little horse."

The words startled Stephen out of his reverie and made him drop the brush in the straw beneath Lady's feet. She snorted and shifted her weight, leaning against him, and he rubbed his hand down her back, murmuring to her.

With his hand still on the mare's swollen belly, he crouched down and found the brush. Straightening slowly he turned and faced Sara Jane. "Pardon, Mademoiselle. May I help you with something?"

"Actually, I've come to do something for you. I noticed at dinner tonight that you've got a tear in your shirt. I thought I'd sew it up for you," she said, lifting her sewing basket for him to see.

To her great surprise, a flush of embarrassment rose on the boy's cheeks. "I—this—this is my last clean shirt," he blurted out, making Sara Jane chuckle and shake her head.

"I'll take it and your other ones with me—tomorrow is wash day. Better give me your extra trousers, too," she added, unable to hold back a soft laugh when Stephen blushed again. "I'll find you an old shirt to wear until yours are dry."

Stephen went to the small room where he slept and gathered up his clothing, draping his spare blanket around his shoulders before awkwardly holding the bundle out for the cook to take.

She dropped it on the cot and sat down on its edge. "Light the lamp and move it a little closer," she told him, opening her sewing basket and pulling out a needle and a spool of white thread. "Oh, this fabric is very good quality . . . and expensive, I dare say." She looked at Stephen sharply, but he refused to meet her gaze.

He sat on the floor and leaned back against the wall with his knees pulled up almost to his chin, the blanket covering nearly all of him. "I did not steal it," he said a little defensively.

"Oh, I know you didn't—it fits you too well," she replied. "I've seen enough things in this old world to be a fairly decent judge of character. I think something happened that you couldn't deal with and you ran away from home."

The boy shifted uncomfortably but said nothing and Sara Jane laughed softly. "Oh, you don't have to admit it," she told him. "I can see it in your eyes." Those blue eyes looked at her in panic and she added hastily, "But only because I've been in a similar situation."

Pausing, she bit the thread in two and laid the shirt aside, picking up another and carefully examining it for tears or loose buttons. As she worked she began to talk slowly. "I was a scholarship student at Miss Kingsbury's Academy for Young Ladies in St. Louis when I was about your age. That meant that in exchange for being able to study, I did chores around the place—in the kitchen, the laundry, helped the maid, and so on."

Her needle flashed in and out of the fabric of another of Stephen's shirts as she continued, "And although you probably couldn't tell, I did receive a good education there—even learned a little French," she said in that language, with a decent accent.

Stephen's eyebrows shot up in surprise—she had only ever spoken English before. "How did you come to be in France, Mademoiselle? America and St. Louis are a long way from here."

A sad, faraway look crossed her face and she sighed. Then with a shake of her head she gave him a half smile. "It's a long, sad story, better saved for another day." Looking at him intently, she added, "Let me simply say that some good people helped me through that time and . . . if you need someone to talk to . . ."

Slowly she reached out and touched Stephen's shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze. His hand came up and covered hers, squeezing back. "Merci, Mademoiselle," he said quietly. "I will remember that." He frowned as she stared at him, beginning to feel more than a bit uneasy as long moments seemed to pass. "Mademoiselle?"

"Damned if you don't remind me of someone," muttered Sara Jane as she rose from the cot and picked up the bundle of clothing. "Not somebody I've met, but a picture I've seen, in a newspaper or something."

Stephen felt an icy ball of dread form in his stomach as he watched her go back to the house. As he lay down on the cot and covered up with the spare blanket, for the first time in his life he wished he did not resemble his papa quite so much.

His dreams were troubled and he woke gasping for air. "Sainte Mère!" he breathed, crossing himself. Pushing away the blanket, he got to his feet and walked the few steps to the wash stand, pouring out what little water remained in the pitcher. He splashed a handful of it on his face, drying it with a scrap of towel that hung from a nail in the wall above the stand.

Cautiously he opened the door and found an old faded blue shirt hanging on the doorknob. With a tiny smile he slipped it on, silently thanking Sara Jane for not forgetting.

As he moved farther out into the barn he heard the animals stirring restlessly—and heard Lady whinny nervously and then snort. Stephen walked to her stall quickly and found her lying down in the straw. "Oh, ma belle, your baby is coming," he crooned as he opened the stall door and knelt down next to her.

Stroking her neck gently, he prayed with all his heart. Oh, Lord, please help me not to fail this time, too.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** My humblest apologies to you all for the length of time between updates. As a friend once remarked, "Life intrudes." However, I hope that will not affect your reading. At the end of Chapter Seven, Stephen discovered that Lady was in labor.

**Nothing But Love**

Chapter Eight

After replacing the soiled straw with fresh, Stephen gave Lady a pat on her flank and quietly left the stall. As soon as he was outside the barn, he raced toward the house, calling M. Chalfont.

He burst into the kitchen, startling Sara Jane as she stood at the stove preparing breakfast. "Mademoiselle Sara Jane, Lady's foal is coming! Where is the monsieur?"

"Ouch!" She set the iron skillet down with a clank and spun around. "Lord, have mercy, Stephen! You nearly scared me out of ten years of my life." She shook her right hand and went to the sink to pump some water on the place where a drop of hot grease had landed. "With all the racket you're makin', I imagine the monsieur will be right along."

"I'm here, boy," rumbled Victor, hitching his suspenders up over his shoulders. "Let's go have a look," he continued, grabbing a lantern from a nail by the door.

In the barn he checked the mare carefully then said "Go get some old towels from Sara Jane. She will know what you want them for. And boy—do not say a word of this to Jolie."

"No, Monsieur," replied Stephen, darting off to the house. Within minutes he returned and helped Victor wrap the mare's tail and wash her hindquarters carefully.

"Now . . . we wait." Victor sat on a small crate turned up on one end. Stephen sank to the floor a few feet away, but within a minute he got up and walked around to the other side of the stall. He managed to keep from drumming his fingers against the wood but just barely.

After observing the young man's nervous behavior for a few minutes, Victor chuckled softly. "Believe me, it does not happen any faster if you stare at her. And," he drew the word out, "it will not help her if she senses that you are nervous, also."

Color rose on Stephen's cheeks and he nodded. "Yes, Monsieur, I know. I have observed a couple of foalings. But I cannot seem to keep still—and yet I have no desire to leave, either."

At that moment Lady heaved herself to her feet, stood for several seconds then lay down on her other side, rolling a bit as she did. A gush of fluid followed, causing Stephen to suck in a sharp breath.

Victor grunted and looked at his pocket watch. "Not quite an hour," he murmured, snapping the watch closed quietly. "The foal should arrive shortly."

Lady stood and lay down several times, rolling each time in an attempt to move the foal into position for the birth. She whinnied loudly and her front legs thrashed during a particularly strong contraction.

"Look, Monsieur!" Grabbing Victor's shoulder, Stephen pointed. A small hoof suddenly emerged from the mare, followed in quick succession by another hoof, the nose and the head. Stephen felt his heart stutter when he saw the star in the middle of the foal's forehead.

Quickly the rest of the foal emerged and promptly it broke through the membranes that surrounded it. Victor and Stephen looked at each other, grinning madly. "It is a colt, Monsieur," said the young man, glad his voice was steady. His heart felt like it was pounding loudly enough for the monsieur to hear.

"Yes, and Lady wants to inspect him—look," said Victor, pointing as the mare tried to reach her baby. After passing the placenta, finally she made it to her feet and stood over the colt, alternately licking him and nudging him.

Victor grasped Stephen's shoulder and they moved back to allow mother and son to bond. The colt's eyes were bright and he struggled to stand, only to fall back to the straw-covered floor. Bravely he tried again and again, eventually gaining his feet, swaying a bit as he reached toward his mother to try to nurse.

Lady whickered softly, as if urging him to keep trying, and soon the colt found what he sought. Watching them, Stephen felt tears well up in his eyes, and he tried to wipe them away without the older man noticing.

Clearing his throat, Victor merely said, "No matter how many times you witness such a thing, it still humbles you, doesn't it, boy?"

"Yes, Monsieur, it surely does." Swallowing, he added, "I will bring some feed and fresh water for Lady. After all that work, I am certain she will want something to eat soon."

Hearing Jolie's voice from outside, Victor winced. "Wouldn't want to trade places, would you, Stephen?" He chuckled softly at the look of horror that crossed the young man's face. "No, didn't think so."

* * *

"Stephen . . . ran away from home?" Nicolas' whispered question made Christine's stomach clench and absently she rubbed it, trying to ease the tension and the pain.

"But why?" A single tear traced its way down the boy's cheek and dripped off his chin unnoticed. After a moment of heavy silence, he asked, "Because of Autumn? Because of what happened to Star?"

Erik nodded. His younger son slumped back against the window, a frown creasing his forehead. Erik could almost see Nicolas' brain working furiously, trying to figure out why Stephen would do such a thing. Fervently he wished someone would explain it to Christine and himself.

Nicolas reached out and took his mother's hand. "I am sorry, Maman, Papa," he whispered.

"I know, mon cher. All of us are worried about him," she murmured, brushing a lock of hair back off his forehead. "But Mère Geneviève and Thèrése from the orphanage have brought us a bit of good news. Stephen sent a note to Thèrése and asked her to tell us that she had received word from him, that he is well."

"But—where is he?"

"Sadly, the note did not say." Erik took Christine's other hand and gave it a quick squeeze. "But we have to believe that he will continue to stay well and safe and that he will come back to us when he is ready." He turned a stern look on Nicolas. "Now, mon fils, what should your punishment be, hmm? I believe we have two incidents we need to address—you being in my study this afternoon, and listening at the keyhole."

"Yes, Papa." The words were barely audible.

"Why were you in Papa's study, Nicky?" Christine asked quietly. "You know the rules well enough—Papa's study is off-limits without his permission."

"I was—I was waiting to ask you something," the boy answered raggedly, staring dejectedly at his toes.

Leaning forward, his elbows resting on his thighs, Erik stared at the boy's lowered head. "What did you want to ask me?" When he did not reply, Erik reached down and tipped the boy's chin up with a finger. "What, Nicky?"

He wiped his nose on the back of his hand then said, "It was two things, Papa. May—may I help you take care of Autumn?" Since Stephen's disappearance, the mare had allowed no one but Erik to touch her.

His papa pursed his lips and considered the request for several moments. Finally he nodded. "We will care for her together, mon fils."

The tiny ache that lived near Christine's heart constantly these days eased just a bit and she gave a tiny smile to her baby and her Angel. "What was the other thing, mon cher?"

"Oh, well . . ." Spots of color rose on Nicolas' cheeks. "Umm . . . I was going to ask, Papa . . . if you would still teach me to read music?"

"We shall discuss it in the morning, while we are grooming Autumn." After a moment he continued, "And for your punishment you will clean all the stalls in the stables for one week."

* * *

Early the next morning Erik woke Nicky and together they went to the stables, the boy rubbing the sleep from his eyes as Erik found two brushes and a box for Nicky to stand on. Although he was tall for his age, he still would not be able to reach as far as he needed without a little help.

"Brush slowly but firmly." Standing behind his son, Erik's big hand covered the boy's smaller one as he demonstrated. Autumn nickered softly and shifted her weight, making Erik grin down at Nicky.

"Did you hear that? That means it feels good to her, that she likes it." Nicolas smiled up at him and Erik felt his heart turn over. After a few more strokes he removed his hand and let the boy do it himself.

Hands on his hips he watched carefully as Nicky gradually worked his way from one side of the horse to the other. Absently Erik rubbed his chest over the spot where a faint ache lodged, remembering that he had shown Stephen these same things when he was about the same age. Stay safe, fils du mon coeur.

When Nicolas had finished grooming Autumn's coat Erik showed him how to comb her mane and tail. "I think that until you are a little older and a little stronger, we will assign the checking of her hooves to me. Understood, mon fils?"

"Yes, Papa." Nicky moved to replace the combs and brushes, jerking his head toward the door as Anna came running up to them.

"Papa!" the girl gasped, holding her side and bending over to catch her breath. "Maman says— to come to the house immediately. Grandpapa and another man have arrived."

Erik took off toward the house at a run, leaving the children to stare after him in surprise. "Stephen!" whispered Anna. Quickly she grabbed Nicky's hand and they ran after him.

Outside the parlor Erik paused to catch his breath and to brush off his clothing. Opening the door he entered the spacious room to find Christine sitting on the sofa with Jean-Marc Gaspard.

A tall, rawboned man stood with one hand braced on the wall, staring out the window. He whirled around when Erik entered and Jean-Marc rose from his seat, a tiny smile on his face. "Erik Montenegro, allow me to introduce you to Jack Templeton."

Shrewd brown eyes seemed to take Erik's measure in one sweeping glance, and Jack strode forward, his hand extended. "Monsieur Montenegro," he said in French, with just a touch of a drawl in his accent.

"Monsieur Templeton," responded Erik, returning the man's firm handshake with one of his own. "Please, sit down," he went on, gesturing toward the love seat. He himself sat next to Christine on the sofa, picking up one hand and kissing the back of it quickly.

"Jean-Marc has told us a little about you," began Christine. "And I believe that he has also told you about our situation. Will you be able to find our son?"

Templeton leaned forward, his gaze direct. "Honestly, I don't know, ma'am," he said in English, his voice gruff. "But I'll do my damnedest to."

"If you would, please tell us a little more about your background," said Erik, also in English. "Your accent . . . I cannot quite place it. The South, perhaps? No, that's not right." Brow furrowed, he thought a moment. "The region that is called . . . the Southwest? Yes, the area of Texas and what is it called? The Indian Territories."

Jack nodded and gave him a half-smile. "You have quite the discerning ear, monsieur, for someone who I believe has never traveled to America."

"No, but I have sold horses to some ranchers from there." Wincing as Christine nudged him in the ribs, he added, "But we digress. How long were you a Pinkerton man?"

"A little more than fifteen years." Briefly he told them how he had been recruited by Allan Pinkerton, some of the cases he'd solved, and what led to his retirement. "Now, I need more details about your son. When did you find the note saying he was leaving home?"

Christine swallowed hard. "Four—almost five weeks ago." Absently she rubbed her stomach. "We had news of him just yesterday. One of the girls at Our Lady of the Angels orphanage brought us a note that she had received from him." Reaching into her skirt pocket she pulled out the note and gave it to Jack.

He skimmed it quickly and asked, "May I keep this?" Seeing her reluctant nod, he added, "I'll return it to you as soon as I speak to the girl, ma'am." He read the note again, adding, "And I'll need a photograph or sketch of him, also."

Erik rose and went to the desk pushed against one wall, pulling a sheet of paper from one drawer. In a few strokes he had drawn Stephen's face, complete with the anguish that had been so much a part of him before his flight from home. He handed it to Jack, hearing Christine's soft gasp when she saw it. "That's him, perfectly," she whispered.

Jack studied the sketch for several long minutes then swore softly. "Damned if I haven't seen this face somewhere before."


	9. Chapter 9

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: At the end of Chapter Eight, Jack Templeton, the former Pinkerton agent, seems to recognize Stephen from the sketch Erik has made.**

Chapter Nine

Christine's breath escaped on a sob and Erik sat down, pulling her tightly against his side. "You—you have seen Stephen?" she whispered hopefully, clutching Erik's hand.

Jack blew out a breath, rubbing his hand over the top of his head. "No, ma'am," he said reluctantly. "Please allow me to explain. After my pa passed on, Maman moved back here, to France—couldn't stand all the memories at home, she said. That was in '72. I came over to visit her about three years later, in April."

Both Christine and Erik inhaled sharply at the significance of that date. After a moment Christine spoke. "My first husband was killed in April 1875. Stephen is his son—and he is the very image of Raoul."

"Raoul? Raoul de Chagny?" said Jack pointedly. When Christine nodded slowly, he whistled long and low. "Oh, my God," he murmured, slumping back in his seat. "I—I was there! I saw it happen—I tried to reach the child but I was too far away."

Heavy silence hung in the room, broken only by the ticking of the mantel clock and the breathing of the room's occupants. Finally Jack spoke quietly. "He was a very brave man, ma'am."

Christine smiled through her tears. "Yes, he was."

"I read the accounts that appeared in the newspapers the next day. They called it an accident, but . . . something about it always nagged at me."

Jack's comment made Erik grunt. "Your instincts were correct. Christine later overheard something that aroused her suspicions and we discovered a few months after Raoul's death that he had in fact been murdered."

"And I presume that the person responsible was brought to justice?"

Smiling into Erik's eyes, Christine answered firmly. "Yes, he was." For a moment they were lost in each other's gaze; then they turned to look at Jack. "Will you take our case, M. Templeton? Will you find our son?" Christine's voice trembled and she squeezed Erik's hand almost to the point of pain.

"I make no promises, ma'am, except that I will do my very best to find him for you." Standing, Jack offered his hand to Erik, who rose and shook it firmly. When Christine got to her feet and reached for Jack's hand, he looked a little startled but recovered quickly, giving her hand a firm squeeze.

"Other than the sketch Erik made, how may we assist you?"

"I'll need to know as much as possible about Stephen—height, weight, hair and eye color, hobbies, temperament . . ." Seeing the frown on Christine's face, Jack elaborated, "Is he a loner, or does he like crowds? Does he make friends easily? Does he trust easily? Things of that nature."

With a nod, she gave him Stephen's vital information, adding, "He loves animals, especially horses. He is not a loner, not exactly, but he does not care for crowds, either."

Erik interjected, "I would not say that he trusts easily, especially strangers. He was greatly troubled by the death of the colt, more so than any of us suspected. I think he will do his best to blend in wherever he is, to attract no undue attention to himself." Glancing briefly at his wife, he continued, "You should also know that for the past year or so, Stephen and I have not been getting along very well. I do not believe that there is any one particular reason for this, other than perhaps Stephen's age, and . . . my being married to his mother."

Jean-Marc spoke for the first time in several minutes. "He is not given to acting on impulse, however, despite his age. I think that is one reason why his flight has shocked everyone so." After a moment of further reflection, he added, "Stephen is a very . . . steady young man, thoughtful, usually not easily provoked to anger."

Nodding as he made notes on a pad he pulled from his coat pocket, Jack said, "Good! This is all very important information. Now—may I see his room? See what things he might have taken with him?"

"Yes, of course." Christine made her way to the parlor door, the men following in her wake. "We should have done this sooner, I know, but . . . to be quite honest, I could not force myself to go in there." She led the way up the stairs and down the hallway to Stephen's room.

All the bedrooms had windows facing the rear of the house and Jack took a quick glance outside, noting the gardens and outbuildings. Turning back to the room, he went to the armoire and opened it. "Please, come and tell me if anything is missing."

Blinking back tears, Christine approached the armoire slowly. As she reached out to pull the door open completely, she swallowed hard. After a moment she squared her shoulders and looked inside.

Moving the hangers from one end of the rod to the other, mentally she took stock of her oldest son's clothing. "A—about five shirts are missing, some trousers . . . and undergarments and the like," she told him softly. Checking the contents of the bottom of the armoire, she added, "A couple of old blankets are missing as well, and his everyday boots are gone."

Jack glanced toward the writing desk that sat a short distance away. Several books were piled on it and on the floor next to it. "Looks like he reads a lot," he commented, and both Christine and Erik nodded in agreement. "Did he have a favorite book, or a favorite genre of books?"

"He likes biographies, and history," said Erik. "As for a favorite book, I couldn't say."

"Oh, Erik!" whispered Christine. She had walked over to the bureau and stood with her arms wrapped around herself as if she were chilled. The men joined her and she pointed to an empty spot. Erik slid one arm around her waist and she leaned into him, tears sliding down her cheeks.

"What's missing?" Jack asked, poised to make a note on his pad.

Erik had to swallow before he could reply. "A small wooden horse—a baby rattle, actually—that I carved for him."

* * *

Stephen sat cross-legged on his cot, idly turning the little wooden horse over and over in his hands. Years ago his childish fingers had worn smooth places in the carved wood of the horse's mane.

With a sad smile he remembered when he'd discovered that Erik had carved the horse for him. He'd gone looking for the older man not long before Nicky was born and had found him in the stables, carving a dog rattle. With a sudden flash of insight he knew where the horse had come from, and Anna's cat and Marie's rabbit.

In a fit of uncharacteristic anger he'd vowed to throw the horse away, but Anna had begged him not to, insisting that he would regret it if he did. Thank you, Anna.

Perhaps you should have talked to her before you ran away, a voice in his head chided him. Frowning, he ignored the voice and listened to the rhythmic sounds of the beads as they rolled back and forth inside the horse.

"Hey, Stephen, you decent? I'm comin' in," called Sara Jane mere seconds before she stuck her head into the room.

Hastily he stuffed the horse under his pillow, but not before she saw him do it. Standing, he reached out to take the folded clothing from her arms. "Merci, Mademoiselle Sara Jane."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "And I thought I told you to forget that 'mademoiselle' business and just call me Sara Jane."

"I know, ma—Sara Jane, but it is not an easy thing for me to do."

"And that speaks well of your up-bringing," she replied. After a moment she continued, "You know, Stephen, no matter how hard you try to hide it, your background shows. The care you take with your speech, your manners . . ."

Dismally he plopped down on the cot. "I—I have tried to fit in—"

"Maybe that's the problem—you can't be something you're not. You need to just be yourself."

"But I don't know who that is!" The words burst from him, surprising them both.

"Why is that?" When he didn't respond, she added, "Then let me tell you who I see when I look at you. You are a good person, Stephen. You're thoughtful, respectful, hard-working, compassionate . . ."

Shaking his head the young man shoved to his feet and paced the length of the small room. "No, no, I am none of those things," he muttered fiercely. With his back to her, he didn't see Sara Jane roll her eyes in disgust.

She grasped him firmly by the shoulders and spun him around. The angry words she'd meant to say died on her lips when she saw the tears in his eyes. "Stephen, hon, for God's sake, tell me what happened! You've got to talk about it to someone or it's just going to keep on festering. What made you run away from home?"

He brushed past her and sat on the edge of the cot. "I have . . . very few memories of my papa. He died—was murdered, actually—when I was four years old. Maman married again a year or so later. I have a younger sister—and a younger half-sister and brother."

"Tell me about the man your mama married."

Stephen scooted back on the cot and leaned against the wall. "Erik is a good man, a very . . . fair man, unless you attempt to cheat him," he replied quietly. "I discovered a little over a year ago that he knew my parents before they were married—in fact he tried to keep them apart—but once they were married he left them in peace."

Thinking that was a strange choice of words, Sara Jane asked, "How has he treated you and your brother and sisters?"

Spots of embarrassed color appeared on his cheeks. "He—he loves us all equally, I think. Certainly he shows no favoritism to his . . . natural children. I have hurt him—horribly—more than once, and I regret that very much."

"Hmmm." Sara Jane sat on the opposite end of the cot. "So he's not a tyrant, and I don't expect he mistreats your mama." The boy's eyes flashed at that and she chuckled. "Come on, Stephen. Tell me what happened that made you believe that you had to run away."

"Erik breeds and raises riding horses," began Stephen in a low voice. "I watched as this particular mare gave birth about three years ago, and . . . fell in love with the foal. It was a filly and I was allowed to choose her name. I helped raise her, and Erik and Maman gave her to me for my birthday last year."

Sara Jane blew out a deep breath. "Well, that explains a few things," she murmured. "But not everything," she went on, giving him a sharp look. "I intend to hear all of it—won't leave until I do." Folding her arms across her chest, she stared at him, waiting for him to continue.

"We bred Autumn and she gave birth to a colt . . . with a star on his forehead." Taking a deep breath he blurted the rest of it out. "He went out with Autumn and me one day when he was five months old and got too warm and . . . drank too much water too quickly . . . and died from colic."

Tears filled her eyes and she leaned forward, pulling him into her embrace. "Oh, hon," she whispered, feeling him shaking against her as he sobbed. "Shh… it's not your fault, cher. You know that, don't you, in your heart?"

Wrenching out of her arms, he stormed a few feet away. Angrily he wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt. "I left home because I could not look at Autumn, could not take care of her, and not think of Star, her colt. I could not close my eyes at night without seeing him lying there in pain and knowing I could do nothing to help him!" His anguish evident in his voice and the tenseness of his posture, he clenched his fists, raising them as if he were going to hit the wall then letting them drop to his side.

Gingerly Sara Jane approached him, carefully touching his shoulder so as not to startle him. "Hon, you need to let your folks know you're all right," she said softly. "Even if you're not ready to go back home, you owe them that much."

"I have already written to them," he said flatly. "On my way here I mailed a note to a friend and asked her to go to them and tell them she had received word from me."

"Well, just in case that one didn't make it to them, you're going to sit down right now and write them another note." When he started to protest, she spoke over him. "I'll take this one to town and mail it myself. You owe this to them," she repeated sternly, "and I'm not gonna let you shirk your duty."

As he moved the bowl and pitcher off the wash stand to use it as a desk, she said, "You wrote to a girl, huh? Not one of your sisters, I bet. So who is she and where did you meet her?" Nudging him in the ribs when he blushed, she said cajolingly, "Come on, Stephen, tell Aunt Sara Jane all about her."


	10. Chapter 10

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: I offer my apologies for the length of time between updates. Life intruded on me in a big way, which unfortunately slowed down my writing. At the end of Chapter 9, Sara Jane convinces Stephen to write to his parents.**

Chapter Ten

Sara Jane rummaged through the tack room next to the small room where Stephen slept and found a sheet of paper and a stubby pencil. "All right now," she said with satisfaction, "you just sit yourself down here and start writin'."

Obediently Stephen sat on a small crate he'd turned up on one end. He blew out a deep breath and began to write slowly. " 'Dear Maman, Anna, Marie, Nicky and Erik: Please do not worry about me—I am well. I ask for your forgiveness, if you are able to give it, for leaving in the way that I did. I am very sorry. I do not know when I will be ready to return home. I can only promise that I will return as soon as I can.' "

Reading aloud over his shoulder, Sara Jane commented, "Very nice. Now, put the date on it, and I'll seal it for you."

As an afterthought Stephen scribbled a postscript before he handed it to her. "If you should see Thèrése, please tell her that I am well." Folding the paper he quickly wrote the name and address on the outside and gave it to Sara Jane.

She stuck the note in her apron pocket and sat down on the cot, arms folded across her chest. "Now," she continued, "let's hear about this girl, Thèrése."

"There is— not much to tell," mumbled the boy, ducking his head and staring at the rough planks of the floor. He dared to peek at Sara Jane from the corner of his eye and sighed, seeing the determined look on her face. "Her name is Thèrése Valmont and she lives at Our Lady of the Angels orphanage."

"Orphanage?"

"Yes, Maman and Erik are the patrons, and we spend considerable time there, especially during the holidays."

Lord, have mercy! Your folks are even richer than I thought, if they sponsor an orphanage. "And what does Thèrése look like?" she said aloud. "I bet she's a tiny li'l thing, blonde with big blue eyes."

Stephen shook his head with a faint smile. "No, she is tall and slender, almost as tall as I am, with auburn hair and eyes like melted chocolate. She—she likes animals, too, especially cats." He fell silent for a moment then added, "She has freckles across her nose and her cheekbones."

"And just how do you know that?" asked Sara Jane teasingly. "Eyes like chocolate, huh?" Seeing him blush, she chuckled heartily. Unable to resist, she added, "Kissed her yet?"

"No!" His face turned bright red and his eyes widened in horror. "I would not—no, I—"

"Oh, hon, I'm sorry," she told him between bouts of soft laughter. "You're such a sweet boy, it's so tempting to tease you a little." She shook her head, murmuring, "Oh, sweet innocence." After a moment she said thoughtfully, "But I imagine she gave you hell for runnin' away, didn't she?"

Solemnly he nodded and Sara Jane thought, Good for you, girl, wherever you are! Pushing to her feet, she said, "I'll post this for you tomorrow when I go into town for supplies—all right?"

"Merci, Sara Jane. For posting it—and for insisting that I write it."

"You're quite welcome, hon," she replied, patting his shoulder. She then left for the house. Once she had reached her room, she carefully unfolded the paper and in small letters wrote "Sainte Anne du Jardin" in the bottom left-hand corner. She melted a little wax and sealed it, noting the name and address Stephen had written on it.

I promise I will do my best to send him back to you real soon, she thought and tucked the letter back in her apron pocket.

Unable to fall asleep, Stephen finally threw back the blanket and went out into the barn, to Lady's stall. She nickered softly as he approached and stuck her head over the door to greet him. "Oh, ma belle, I am glad that I found you here," he whispered as he scratched her behind her ears.

"You are as easy to talk to as . . . as Autumn was," he continued. "And Mam'selle Sara Jane—she is something, n' est-ce pas?"

Lady bobbed her head as if in agreement and Stephen chuckled. Then he sobered and reached out to stroke the mare's neck gently. "Oh, ma chere," he whispered raggedly. "I felt so helpless, watching Star . . ." He swallowed hard. "But now—I feel as though I have been given a second chance. Merci, belle fille, for trusting me."

* * *

Erik and Christine offered Jack the use of a small room in the house as an office, and he gladly accepted. Sitting at the desk, he transcribed his notes from a meeting with Mère and Thèrése at the orphanage, chuckling as he remembered his first impression of the nun. One tough cookie, he thought. I sure wouldn't want to meet up with her when she's got her dander up!

A soft knock sounded on the open door and he glanced up. Christine stood on the threshold of the room, one hand on Nicky's shoulder. "May we come in, Jack?" she asked as he got to his feet.

"Yes, certainly."

Giving Nicky a slight push with her hand, she moved aside to allow Anna and Marie to enter the room also. "You asked if you could speak with the children. Would you prefer to speak to them separately or together?"

"Together is just fine. Do you want to stay? Something they say might trigger a memory for you, too." Jack looked at her expectantly and Christine shook her head.

"No, but thank you for asking. Marie, remember that Papa will be waiting for you in the music room when you are finished here."

The girl nodded. "Yes, Maman. I will remember." The three children sat side by side on the sofa.

Jack studied them for a moment before he came around in front of the desk and hitched one hip up on the corner. Anna and Marie resembled each other greatly in appearance, but were quite different in temperament. Marie met his gaze steadily, while Anna glanced up at him shyly before dropping her eyes. Nicky sat between them, squirming until both girls nudged him and whispered, "Sit still!"

Hiding a grin, Jack cleared his throat. "I want to talk to you all about Stephen. You know that your parents have hired me to try to find him and bring him home. Anything you can tell me—even the tiniest little thing—may be extremely important and may help me find him that much quicker."

"I want to go with you and find Stephen and help fight the bad men," said Nicky emphatically, making one corner of Jack's mouth tilt up in a smile.

"Well, son, I'd be mighty glad to have you lend a hand. But I expect that your mama and daddy will have a little to say about whether or not you can go with me," replied Jack, fighting to keep from grinning as Nicky slumped backward pouting.

Marie rolled her eyes at her little brother. "What kind of information are you looking for, M. Jack?"

She's a cool customer, thought Jack, crossing his arms over his chest. All business, this one. "When was the last time you saw him before he . . . left home? Let's start there."

Frowning, Marie thought back. "It was at dinner," she said slowly. "Stephen did not eat much, although the meal was one of his favorites, roasted beef with potatoes."

"Did he seem . . . preoccupied? Upset? Angry?"

"No," answered Anna pensively. "Preoccupied, perhaps, but more sad than anything. He had been very . . . He had kept mostly to himself after Star . . . Sometimes, when things bothered him, when he could not seem to understand why things had happened, he would come to my bedroom and we would talk, sometimes far into the night."

"But he didn't come and talk to you that night, before he left?"

Biting her lip, she shook her head. "No, but the note he left, telling us he was leaving, it was on my pillow when I woke the next morning."

"Stephen will be where there are horses," offered Nicky, and Marie groaned, punching him on the shoulder.

"Practically every house in the country has horses! We have horses," she muttered, ducking away as Nicky tried to pinch her arm.

They stopped their bickering suddenly, mouths gaping open, when Jack whistled shrilly through his teeth. "Enough!" he said, scowling. "All right, that's all for now, but if you think of something that happened that last day, come and tell me."

Silently the children rose and filed out of the room, leaving him rubbing the top of his head. "Well, that went real well," he muttered in disgust. Remembering that Erik had mentioned a cousin living near Orléans, Jack went back to his notes.

* * *

Christine came out of the bathing room to find Erik snoring softly, his bare chest rising and falling gently with each breath, one arm dangling over the side of the bed. Frowning, she noticed the scratch on his upper arm that he'd mentioned Jack had given him while they were fencing the day before.

Lifting the coverlet, she climbed carefully onto the bed. She looked down at him with a grin, and thought, Imagine! The Phantom snores! Gently she picked up the book that lay open on his lap and set it on the bedside table.

She turned on her side and scooted toward the middle of the bed, sighing as he woke and turned, sliding one arm around her waist. Propping his head on one elbow, he held her tightly against him, spoon-fashion. They lay still for a moment then Erik's hand slid up to cup her breast through her nightgown.

"Don't . . . please?" she murmured, her hand covering his and stopping its movement.

He froze for a second then moved their joined hands down to her waist. "I'm sorry, love," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple.

Comfortable and content simply to be in each other's presence, they were quiet for several minutes. Idly Erik traced the curve of her cheek and trailed the backs of his fingers down her bare arm. "Are you certain that I could not . . . persuade you . . . to change your mind?" he asked softly.

Chuckling, Christine twisted onto her back and stared up at him. "I am certain. As I recall, that is how we ended up with Nicky."

Erik laughed softly. "There is no safe response to that, so I will say nothing." Lowering his head he kissed her gently on the lips then resumed his place beside her, his arm snug around her waist.

Several moments passed in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. I see Nicky and I see the childhood you should have had, my love. She turned to face him, tears glistening in her eyes. She rose up on her elbow and cupped Erik's cheek. "Have I told you recently how very much I love you?" she whispered, touching her lips ever so lightly to his.

Smiling gently, he pretended to consider her question. In reality she had told him just that morning. "Perhaps it has been . . . a while," he said, lifting his hand and rubbing his thumb across her cheek and then her mouth.

"Will you . . ." she spoke past his thumb.

"Will I what, love?"

"Please, my angel, will you sing for me?"

Her question took him by surprise, and immediately he shook his head 'no'. "Christine, I—"

She hushed him with a finger pressed to his mouth. "I heard you working with Nicky yesterday. Even though you have not sung much in years, your voice sounds just as wonderful to me as it ever did."

"I daresay you are not the most objective of listeners, however." At her determined look, he sighed. "All right, if you insist." He sat up, stomach muscles rippling, the bed sheet pooling at his waist as he moved to face her.

With a cat-in-the-cream smile she piled the pillows against the headboard and leaned back, eyes gleaming in anticipation.

" 'Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation; Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination; Silently the senses abandon their defenses' . . ."

He barely got the last word out before Christine launched herself at him with a growl, knocking him flat on his back. Straddling his lean hips she bent down and kissed him feverishly, leaving his mouth to trail hot kisses down his neck and across his chest.

After a second's hesitation, Erik fisted his hands in her hair and pulled her mouth back to his, responding hungrily, felt her press her body hard against his. When they came up for air he wrapped his arms around her and reversed their positions. Looking at her quizzically, he waited for her explanation.

She merely shrugged, flashing an impish grin. "I changed my mind."


	11. Chapter 11

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: Warning for sexual content. For those who "requested" a scene with Erik and Christine, I hope this doesn't disappoint. At the end of Chapter 10 she asks him to sing to her, then says she has changed her mind about . . . ;->**

Chapter 11

The quiet click of the door latch opening brought Erik wide awake. Unmoving, he listened intently; when he heard soft, rapid footsteps on the rug, he fought to keep a grin off his face.

He waited until he thought the intruder was near the bed then he spoke. Still raspy from sleep, his voice was several tones deeper than normal. "Do not even think about leaping onto this bed, Nicolas."

The boy stumbled and half-fell against the foot of the bed. Erik could feel Christine shaking with suppressed laughter, and he sat up in time to see the disappointment flash across his son's face.

"Oh, Papa, I can never sneak up on you. Not like Anna and Marie." Dejected, he turned to leave the room.

Erik scooted down to the end of the bed and grabbed Nicky under the arms, lifting him into the air and onto the bed with a grunt. "Come here, you rascal," he said teasingly, tickling the boy along his ribs, causing him to giggle and squirm to get away.

Without warning, a pillow caught Erik on the back of the head. He jerked around in surprise, seeing Christine ready to strike again. "Oh, no, you don't!" he muttered, grabbing up his own pillow as a weapon and preparing to defend himself.

Nicky dove off the bed to find a pillow to use, returning within seconds with a long narrow cushion from the loveseat in front of the fireplace.

"It's every man for himself," said Erik, his voice thick with laughter. He swung his pillow and knocked Christine backward then ducked to avoid a blow from Nicky.

The boy shrieked with laughter, the sound bringing Anna and Marie running to see what was happening. Soon they joined in the fray and for several minutes the bedroom rang with shouts of merriment and grunts.

Finally Christine collapsed backward on the bed, her chest heaving in exertion. "I surrender," she gasped, "I yield, I give up."

Erik loomed over her, his eyes gleaming. "Remember that tonight, love," he said loudly enough only for her to hear. He fell on his stomach beside her, knowing Nicky would pile on his back, wincing when a bony knee gouged his spine.

"A piggyback ride, Papa? Please?" the boy wheedled, knowing that his papa would eventually say yes.

"Oh, all right." Groaning dramatically as he climbed off the bed with Nicky clinging to him, Erik managed to bend down and press a kiss to the top of his wife's head. "I'll see you at breakfast." He and Nicky made their way to the door, Erik trying to dislodge his burden, which made Nicky squeal in laughter once more.

The light-hearted mood lasted through breakfast and the family included Jack in their playfulness, frequent laughter ringing around the dining table. Erik gave permission for the children to leave the table and the adults remained for a few more minutes, lingering over cups of coffee.

Jack pushed his plate aside and leaned his arms on the table. With a crooked grin he looked at his hosts. "It's been a good long while since I laughed like that," he told them. "That Nicky!"

Waving her hand, Christine smiled ruefully. "Say no more. All the children have been a great source of joy to us, but Nicky . . ." She glanced toward the door as one of the maids came in. "Yes, Suzanne?"

"Today's post, madame," the girl said quietly, laying a bundle on the table next to Christine's plate.

While she sorted through the mail, the two men spoke softly, Jack telling Erik about his conversation with Mère. Christine gasped softly and the men looked at her sharply.

"What is it, love?" Erik rose and went to her, kneeling down next to her chair.

"It's . . . it's a letter from Stephen!" she whispered, staring at the slightly crumpled and stained piece of paper. For a moment they all stared at the note then hurriedly she broke the seal. Hungrily she scanned the note then passed it to Erik.

He read the note quickly and gave it to Jack, who read it more slowly. "This is Stephen's handwriting—you have no doubt of that?"

Both parents nodded and Jack pointed out the tiny words at the bottom. "And this is definitely not his handwriting?"

Christine took the note back from him and she and Erik studied the words at which Jack had pointed. "Oh, Erik!" she whispered. "I—I can't read it all! Can you make out what it says?"

He took the paper and walked to the window, holding it up to the light, squinting at the small print. "The last part is smudged," he said after a long moment. "All that is clear to me is 'Sainte An'," he continued. "Could you make out anything more?" he said to Jack.

"No, dammit," muttered Jack. "But it is more of a clue than we had before. Let's take a look at the atlas in the library—I'll need to make a list of all the towns and cities that begin with those letters."

* * *

The arrival of Stephen's note and Jack's subsequent departure later in the day for Paris, to have the sketch Erik had done for him re-produced, created an air of excitement that lasted well into the evening.

Nicky had to be sent from the table during dinner; Christine and Erik spent considerable time with him afterward explaining that his tantrum had been most inappropriate. After a tearful apology from their son, the three went to the kitchen to find a bit of the dessert Nicky had missed.

Halfway through his piece of chocolate torte, the boy's eyes began to droop. "Bien, mon fils, to bed with you," murmured Erik, gathering him up in his arms.

Christine went ahead of them and turned down the bed. Nicky immediately turned over on his side, making a soft sound of contentment.

His parents stood watching him sleep. Christine sniffled softly and Erik slid his arm around her shoulders. Slowly he led her from the room and down the hall to their bedroom. Once he had closed the door behind them she came into his embrace, burying her face in his chest. He held her close, feeling the sobs that shook her slender body.

"Shhh, ma chère, we'll find him soon. He wrote that letter just a few days ago—he's fine, love, he's fine," he crooned.

Sighing, she laid her head on his chest, listening to the soothing rumble of his voice. "Yes, I know," she whispered. "We must continue to believe everything will be fine, mustn't we? But . . . he has been gone for so many weeks!"

"I have every confidence that Jack will find him, love, and soon." He spoke with as much confidence as he could muster; at times he worried a great deal, too.

They stood for a moment in silence then Christine yawned widely. Erik chuckled softly. "Into bed with you, too, ma belle." Stepping back he took her by the shoulders and turned her around. "I want to check on the girls and I will return shortly." Quickly he unfastened the back of her dress and gave her a little nudge.

"Don't take too long," she said over her shoulder as she went toward the bathing room.

But by the time Erik returned, Christine was sound asleep, her breathing deep and slow. Carefully he lay down beside her, but could not fall asleep. Finally he eased from the bed and left the room on silent feet.

The music room beckoned, and he seated himself at the piano. When his hands touched the keys, the beautiful tones of Bach's Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring filled the air and he felt a small measure of calm fill his soul for the first time in many weeks.

Bach soon gave way to Chopin, Liszt and Schumann. He had just played the opening measures of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata when he sensed someone behind him. Without lifting his hands from the keyboard, he looked back over his shoulder to see Christine standing in the doorway.

Returning his attention to the music, he nonetheless heard her close and lock the door, and his heart began to thud in heavy beats. When her hands caressed his bare shoulders and drifted down over his chest, the notes faltered then stopped.

Turning on the bench to face her, he grasped her hips and pulled her between his knees. Her hands returned to his shoulders, kneading the steely muscles. His hands slid down her legs until they found the backs of her knees. Tugging slightly, he settled her on his lap.

They both gasped at the contact even through the thin material of her gown and his cotton sleeping pants. Christine leaned down and seized his mouth in a deep, fierce kiss. Moaning into her mouth Erik met her tongue thrust for thrust.

Slowly he stood, their mouths still fused together, her woman's place pressed tightly against his throbbing manhood. In a few steps his legs bumped against the sofa and he bent one knee to deposit her gently on the leather cushions.

She protested softly when he pulled away, only to smile brilliantly when he reached for the bottom of her nightgown. Impatiently she helped him work it up over her head then she reached for the drawstring at the waist of his pants. "Your turn, love," she whispered.

His eyes glowing with love and desire, Erik straightened and let the pants fall to the floor. His erection sprang free and Christine grasped it, the touch of her hand nearly making him explode immediately. "Mon Dieu, Christine, not yet!" he said, his voice strained.

Bracing his weight on one arm, he leaned down and took one taut nipple in his mouth, suckling and laving it with his tongue by turns. Christine arched into him, her breath coming in quick pants as he brought her close to her peak. She moaned in ecstasy, and he switched to the other nipple, savoring the sweet taste of her.

His free hand trailed down her side and across her stomach, leaving a trail of goose flesh in his wake. Finding the place he sought, his fingers teased her flesh, encountering wetness, making her buck against him.

"Now, my love," she begged him, and he slid into her, wringing a soulful cry from both of them.

Christine grabbed his muscular backside and held him still for a long moment; they stared deeply into each other's eyes, needing no words between them.

Then Erik began to move, slowly, and her hands came up to clutch his shoulders. After several deep, powerful strokes she cried out, stiffening against him. He held her tightly, his own release coming seconds later.

"Mon coeur," she breathed in his ear.

"Mon ange," responded her husband, his voice muffled against the curve of her neck.

He raised his head and looked at her. "Je t'aime," they both said at the same time.


	12. Chapter 12

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: Once again I find that I must apologize for the length of time between updates. Important family concerns have prevented me from writing as often as I would like. At the end of Chapter 11, Erik and Christine engaged in some 'carnal recreation', as a good friend has so aptly described it... **

Chapter Twelve

Christine sat alone at the dining table, her chin propped on her hand, a dreamy look on her face as she remembered last night. It was odd, she thought with a wicked grin, that in all our years here, we had never . . . in the music room.

She gave herself a quick mental shake when Suzanne appeared in the doorway, a distressed look on her face. "Yes, Suzanne, what is it?"

"A . . . gentleman to see you, madame," the girl replied, putting a strange emphasis on 'gentleman'.

"I see. And what is his name?"

"M. Louis Chalfont."

The name hung in the air like a bad odor. Christine closed her eyes and gritted her teeth for a moment. Slowly she straightened and squared her shoulders, pushing away from the table. "Very well," she murmured, "show him into the parlor, Suzanne. And send someone to find M. Montenegro, please."

The girl curtsied and left the room. Christine took a deep breath and held it, hoping against hope that it would calm her. It did not.

Luckily she had tucked a scented handkerchief into the sleeve of her dress that morning. The stench of stale smoke and unwashed body assaulted her as soon as she entered the parlor. Whisking the handkerchief from her sleeve she pressed it to her nose, hoping a bit of the wildflower scent would rub off on her skin. It did not.

"M. Chalfont?" she spoke through the cloth. "May I inquire as to the purpose for this . . . visit?"

Hastily he set down the small Limoges china figurine of an angel that he had been inspecting and moved the foul-smelling cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.

"You and your husband never sent me any money, to find your son," he grumbled around the cigar, "and I came to ask why."

"No, we did not, for a very good reason," she retorted. "We hired another man, someone we believe has a much better chance of finding him than you. To be quite frank, monsieur, we found you . . . utterly despicable."

Staring him directly in the eye, she continued, her voice hard. "We have no need of your . . . services, monsieur, and I must insist that you leave—now."

She took a step backward and half-turned, gesturing toward the door. "Monsieur?" When he remained where he was, she marched to the bell pull. "You have a choice, Chalfont. You may either walk out on your own or you will be removed by force."

His beady eyes snapping with anger, Chalfont stalked past her without a word. Christine moved into the hallway and watched as he flung open the front door with enough force to bounce it off the wall.

She remained where she was, watching him until he had descended the front steps, then she dashed to the parlor window and heaved it open. Bracing her hands on the windowsill, she gulped in deep breaths of cool late November air.

"Sacrebleu!" After taking one more breath of outside air, she lowered the window halfway and turned back to the room. Filthy little weasel of a man, she thought disgustedly. Calling for Suzanne, she instructed the girl to bring some of the extra lavender sachets they had made for the linen closet.

"Put them around the room and leave the window open for a while," she said, adding, "Did no one find M. Montenegro?"

"No, madame. Jacques said he was out exercising Autumn, and he sent one of the stable boys to find the monsieur."

At that moment Erik rode into the stable yard and vaulted from the horse's back, flinging the reins in Jacques' direction. He headed toward the house, his long legs eating up the distance quickly.

He arrived at the rear of the house in time to see Chalfont skulking around the waist-high wall that bordered the terrace. Erik's hands twitched and he wished mightily for a length of rope. No, he thought, that would be too easy on him.

Ducking behind a pine tree, he watched as Chalfont sidled up to the French doors that opened onto the terrace and peered inside. Just as the other man reached for the door handle, Erik grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around.

"Not so fast, Chalfont," he growled, easily dodging the fist that shot toward his chin. He snatched that fist and twisted the arm attached to it behind Chalfont's back, applying enough pressure to bring the detective up on his toes and wring a groan from him.

"Talk quickly and tell me the correct things, and perhaps I will not break your arm," Erik went on, giving that appendage another quick jerk upward. He walked the two of them away from the house about fifty feet, out of sight of both the house and the stables.

Chalfont stopped struggling and Erik relaxed his hold slightly. Suddenly Chalfont stomped on Erik's toes and stumbled away as Erik released him with a curse.

"Not so damn high and mighty now, are you?" taunted the detective as he danced back and forth in front of Erik. Laughing as Erik gingerly put his weight on his sore foot, Chalfont grossly miscalculated the temper of the former Phantom of the Opera, as well as the reach of his long arms.

As a result of that miscalculation, his head snapped backward violently under the force of Erik's fist connecting with his nose. Both hands flew to cover his face, leaving his midsection unprotected. Erik landed a quick right-left combination and Chalfont dropped to his knees.

Not even breathing deeply, Erik said menacingly, "If you think to play with me as a cat with a mouse, you will be most disappointed in the outcome, I assure you."

Chalfont lunged at him from his knees; Erik calmly sidestepped and applied his boot to the other man's backside, shoving him face first down in the mud. He surged to his feet, cursing, arms swinging wildly. "Beast! Monster! Spawn of the devil!"

Nostrils flaring, Erik landed several blows to the detective's face and solar plexus. "You should know better than to anger the devil, Chalfont. He might just kill you."

Collapsing on the ground, Chalfont made no attempt to move when Erik nudged him with his boot. Bending over he grabbed the other man by the collar of his shirt and the waistband of his trousers and dragged him to the front of the house.

Dumping him belly-down over the saddle of the horse standing there, Erik slapped the animal on its rump. Horse and rider charged down the drive, mud flying in their wake.

"Perhaps he'll fall off and break his neck."

Erik whipped around at those words and saw Christine standing at the top of the stairs, her eyes flashing angrily, her mouth a flat line. Flexing his right hand, he slowly climbed the stairs and stood in front of her.

Carefully she took his hand, tsking at the swollen knuckles. "Come into the kitchen and I'll bandage that for you." She led the way inside, gently holding his bruised and bloodied hand in both of hers.

"Just don't pour any cognac over it," he muttered.

"If I do, will you react the same way today as you did then?"

Surprised by her teasing question, he frowned, not remembering. Then his face cleared and he smiled softly. "The bite from Thunder, after we had become . . . reacquainted," he murmured. He put his other hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him. Staring into her eyes, he saw her love for him shining there, and a touch of wistfulness. "That was . . . an eventful day, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Trapping me against the cabinet, accusing me of pouring the cognac on your wound on purpose . . ." She gasped in surprise as he suddenly pressed her against the wall and stole a heated kiss from her.

"I wanted to do that, that day," he said quietly, "but I dared not."

Impishly she grinned at him. "And now you dare to do it at any time."

* * *

"Stephen, have you seen Martha? I haven't seen her for several days—do you suppose she's had her kittens?" Jolie came into the barn and fed Lady a carrot, patting the mare's neck when the treat was gone.

He stopped his work, leaning on his pitchfork. "Yes, I believe the babies have arrived—I heard a lot of squeaking and mewing last night as I was trying to fall asleep."

Seeing the light that came to her eyes, he added warningly, "Be very careful if you go up into the loft. Your papa told me there are some rotten boards up there that he must replace." He shook his head with a grin; before he finished speaking Jolie disappeared up the ladder into the loft.

"And take special care if you do find Martha," he called after her. "She may not want you near her babies."

Quickly he spread some clean straw in Lady's stall, giving her a pat on the flank. "Bien, ma belle, you are ready for another day." She nickered and bobbed her head, and he pressed a quick kiss between her ears.

One by one he cleaned the other stalls, managing to sidestep the cow as she tried to take a chunk out of his leg. It had become a daily contest, avoiding her amazingly long reach. He had asked Sara Jane how she was able to milk such a disagreeable creature; the woman merely laughed and said she'd gotten her bluff in on the cow early.

He heard Jolie's muffled voice in the loft; at her squeal of delight he knew she had found the kittens and grinned. The grin faded slightly when he remembered Nicky's similar delight when their dog Soleil had had puppies.

Grasping the handles of the wheelbarrow, Stephen grunted from the effort it took to push it outside. He felt one shoulder seam of his shirt give way and grimaced. Sara Jane had told him the last time that she had let the seams out as much as she could. He hoped she would be able to start soon on the new shirts she had promised to make for him. All the clothing he had taken when he left home was badly tattered.

When he returned the now-empty wheelbarrow to its place in the barn, he heard rustling overhead and Jolie's voice murmuring. "Stephen, come look!" she called a few moments later and he looked up in time to see her running toward the edge of the loft, a tiny kitten cradled in her hands.

A sickening crack of wood drowned out the rest of her words and a strangled cry came from her throat as she fell through the rotten boards in the loft's floor.

"Sainte Mère!" Stephen rushed to break her fall but the impact knocked him sideways into the mowing machine that had been stored away for the winter.

They landed with him on the bottom, but Jolie's head connected violently with one of the iron wheels of the machine, and she went limp in his arms.

"Jolie!"


	13. Chapter 13

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: At the end of the previous chapter, Jolie falls through some rotten boards and hits her head.**

Chapter 13

Carefully Stephen moved so that he sat with Jolie cradled in his lap. "Jolie!" he whispered, patting her cheek, "please wake up!"

Holding her with his left arm, gently he parted the hair on the right side of her head—a large bump seemed to grow before his eyes. Thankfully he could feel her heart beating and her chest rose and fell steadily.

After a long moment he blew out a deep breath. "Bien, petite fille, we are going to go to the house now. Tante Sara Jane will know what to do to help you." Sliding his right arm under her knees and keeping the other around her shoulders, Stephen stood slowly.

As he shifted Jolie slightly to distribute her weight more evenly, he pressed a brief kiss to her forehead. Sainte Mère, he begged silently, please pray for her!

With slow steps, so as not to jar the girl more than necessary, he left the barn and made his way across the yard to the house. Thankfully, Sara Jane saw them and rushed to open the back door.

"Take her straight up to her room," she commanded, grabbing up her medical basket which contained cloth for bandages and a bottle of witch hazel. "Go on, boy," she urged, "I'm right behind you."

Gently Stephen laid Jolie on her bed and stepped back, grateful that Sara Jane immediately assumed control of the situation.

She poured some water into the basin from the pitcher on the dresser and soaked a cloth. Sitting carefully next to the girl, she ran the cloth slowly over Jolie's face. "Now tell me what happened," she said, her tone even, her movement steady, nothing betraying the agitation she felt.

Stephen swallowed audibly. "She—she was in the loft, looking for Martha and her kittens. She was running toward the edge and—and she fell through the rotten boards. I warned her, before she went up, that the monsieur had said they needed to be replaced, but . . ."

"Judging from the size of that goose egg, she landed pretty hard."

Stiffly he nodded. "I—I managed to—break her fall a little, but . . . she hit her head—on a wheel of the mowing machine." Suddenly he felt as though he could not get enough air into his lungs, no matter how deeply he tried to breathe.

"Sit down before you fall," ordered Sara Jane over her shoulder. "Sit down and hold this in front of your nose." Thrusting a cloth at him she showed him how to make a small tent of the cloth, and within a few seconds, his breathing eased.

Turning her attention back to Jolie, she soaked the cloth again, in the witch hazel this time and folded it, laying it over the bump on the girl's head. "Here," she jerked her chin at the pitcher, "go get some fresh water. This isn't cold enough to help bring the swelling down."

Stephen clattered down the stairs and burst out the door. Sara Jane started to call after him but closed her mouth with a sigh. She cupped Jolie's cheek, relieved to feel the normal warmth of her skin. With her other hand she brushed the dark hair back off the girl's forehead. "Oh, honey-girl, you have to wake up now," she whispered.

Unaware that Stephen had returned, she continued, her voice choked with tears. "C'mon, Jolie, wake up, hon. I . . ." She swallowed hard. "I can't lose you, too."

Silently Stephen retreated a few steps then clomped noisily down the hall. He pretended not to see Sara Jane wiping her eyes on her apron as he entered the room and set the bucket of cold water on the floor at her feet.

"How long will the monsieur and the boys be gone?" His whisper seemed to echo through the room.

"All day." Sara Jane pulled the blanket up over Jolie and tucked the top around her shoulders. "Stoke up the fire a bit—we don't want her to get a chill."

His back to the bed, he poked at the logs vigorously. "Will . . . will she be all right, Tante Sara Jane?"

The words were so soft she almost didn't hear them. "Only God knows that for certain," she told him quietly. "But her breathing is steady and so is her heartbeat. Of course, we don't know how badly she may have scrambled her brains when she hit that wheel." Sliding her hand across his shoulder she gave him a hard squeeze. "All we can do is pray."

He pulled a wooden Rosary from his pocket. "I have been, since she fell."

Sara Jane covered his hand with hers. "Good thing about prayin'—you can do that and other things at the same time." Blinking back tears she added, "You stay with her while I go down and tend to the soup I've got cookin' for tonight." Before he could reply, she rushed from the room.

Uncertain what to do, Stephen walked to the small window and stared out at the yard. Seeing nothing to hold his interest, he blew out a breath and tapped his fingers against his trouser leg. Finally he moved around the end of the bed and perched on the edge of the chair.

Softly he began to talk. "I've not told anyone else this but Tante Sara Jane. I—I have two younger sisters—and a younger brother. His name is Nicky." He shook his head with a tiny smile. "He is about your age . . . You remind me of him sometimes. The things you say, or the way you act."

He fell silent for a long moment then added, "Everyone here—you, Tante Sara Jane, your papa, Lady—have made being away from home . . . less painful." Hearing the housekeeper coming up the stairs, he quickly swiped the tears from his face with the backs of his hands.

Muttering, "I have to finish my chores," he brushed past Sara Jane and bolted outside. Once he had reached the safety of the barn he sank to his knees, struggling to hold back the sobs that threatened to burst from his chest.

He heard Lady moving restlessly in her stall and realized that she sensed his mood. Pushing to his feet he squared his shoulders and walked to her stall. "Shh, ma belle," he murmured, stroking her neck. "She will be fine, bringing you carrots and apples before you know it."

The little horse quieted under the lilt of his voice and his gentle touch. For a moment he stood with his hand on the mare, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, his lips moving as he prayed silently. Lady nickered and bobbed her head, as if she were trying to reassure him now. "Bien," he told her with a shaky laugh, "we will accept nothing but a full recovery."

By the time he returned to the house it was late afternoon. On silent feet he climbed the stairs, one hand clenched around the Rosary in his pocket. He heard Sara Jane talking and shamelessly stopped to listen.

"I meant what I said earlier, little girl. I can't go through losing another child." At that, Stephen's eyebrows arched in surprise. Sara Jane's soft voice went on, "I didn't even know if it was a boy or a girl—Doc said I wasn't far enough along to really tell when I lost it. But I do know how much it hurt, both my body . . . and my heart. And I've never gotten over it, really. Pushed it way back in my mind, but it's always there. I've cursed that day many times, though . . ."

Without thinking Stephen shifted his weight, causing one of the boards he was standing on to squeak loudly. He heard Sara Jane gasp, and he moved so that she could see him standing in the hall. "Pardonnez-moi, Tante Sara Jane. I—" Realizing he had no acceptable excuse, he hung his head and apologized again. "Please, forgive me. I had no right to listen when you thought you were speaking only to her."

"Might as well come in and hear the whole sordid story." Leaning back in the chair, Sara Jane took a moment to gather her thoughts. When he was seated on the floor next to the bed, she began.

"You remember me telling you about bein' a student as Miss Kingsbury's?" He nodded slowly and in an emotionless voice she told him about being attacked in the alley behind the academy by the son of a very well-to-do St. Louis family. Told him about being left in the alley like garbage, about being found by another man who helped her, took her to a doctor and made sure she would be well attended.

"It's been over twenty years, and I can still remember what his voice sounded like," she mused. "Deep, and rich, I guess you'd say, with a touch of a drawl, like he was from down South, or maybe Texas." With a shake of her head she added, "Sure would've liked to have seen his face . . ."

* * *

Clutching the edge of the small table, Christine closed her eyes and willed the dizziness to pass. I must have straightened up too quickly.

But a sly little voice in her head chided her, That is not what caused the dizziness, and you know it very well.

"Hush!" she whispered angrily. Looking around to be certain that she was alone, she held onto the table and slowly eased down on the chair next to it.

Well? the voice taunted her. Was it the night you asked him to sing to you, or the night in the music room? 

With a soft moan, she covered her face with her hands.

"Christine?"

The voice startled her and she jumped. "Oh, Jack, please come in."

He settled on the sofa opposite her, frowning at the lack of color in her face. "Are you all right? You jumped like a scalded cat when I spoke to you just now." His sharp brown eyes studied her intently.

Feeling a rush of color come to her face, she smiled. "Just woolgathering, I'm afraid. Have you any news of Stephen?"

"No, dammit," he muttered, pushing to his feet to pace the room. "I've been to all the towns within a ten-mile radius of here that begin with 'Sainte An' and nothing. No one has seen anyone who even vaguely resembles your boy." He rubbed his face and turned back to her. "I thought I'd come back here for a day or two and then set out for the towns further away." Bracing his hands on his hips, he added, "Anything exciting happen while I was gone?"

"Nothing, unless you consider a visit from Louis Chalfont exciting." Erik's voice came from the doorway, dripping with sarcasm.

"Chalfont? That lily-livered, no-account pile of horse sh—" He choked the word off, but Christine laughed.

"Don't feel as though you must watch your language around me, especially about that . . . fils du putain," she told him. "There is not much else that you could say about him that we have not already said."

Jack grinned at her description and sat back down on the sofa, while Erik took her hand and sank down on the floor at her feet. "So," drawled Jack, "tell me every little disgusting detail about Chalfont."

Erik and Christine looked at each other and he said, "You begin, love, since you saw him first." He threw back his head and laughed when she stuck her tongue out at him before proceeding.

In a few pithy words she told Jack about her short conversation with Chalfont, and then Erik took up the tale, explaining that he'd discovered the foul little man lurking at the back of the house.

By the time Erik finished, a broad smile covered Jack's face and he shook his head. "Sure must have been somethin' to see," he said. After a moment he grunted. "Think that will be the last of him?"

Both shook their heads. "Regrettably, I doubt it," replied Erik. "However, I sincerely hope I am in error about that!"

"Uncle Jack! Uncle Jack!" Nicky blew into the room like a small tornado, nearly knocking over a chair and a footstool in his wake. Jack stood and scooped the boy up before he could do any serious damage.

"Did you find Stephen? Did you fight any bad men?" Questions flew from the boy faster than Jack could answer, prompting him to lay the palm of his hand over Nicky's mouth.

"Just hold your horses a minute, Nicky." He glanced at Erik and Christine. "Okay if we go out to the kitchen? It's a bit of a raw day and I'd like some coffee."

"I believe I smelled fresh coffee when I came through earlier." Erik's smile was broad when he added, "And if I am not mistaken, chocolate cake."

The adults chuckled as Nicky squirmed to be put down and shot out of the room as soon as his feet touched the floor. With a smile Jack said, "I'll speak to you later, then," and followed Nicky out, closing the door behind him.

Erik stood and pulled Christine to her feet then sat down in the chair with her on his lap. "Now, love," he murmured, brushing the hair back off her forehead, "is something wrong? You've not seemed like yourself the last few days."


	14. Chapter 14

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: At the end of Ch. 13, Erik asks Christine if she is feeling all right-- she hasn't seemed herself...**

Chapter Fourteen

Christine said nothing, staring at everything in sight except Erik, until he caught her chin with his fingertips and forced her to look at him.

"Christine?"

Without warning, her eyes flooded with tears that immediately flowed down her cheeks. With a sob, she buried her face against the curve of his neck and soaked the collar of his shirt. Moving his arms so that he held her more securely, he stood slowly and walked the few feet to the sofa.

He sat and turned so that his long legs stretched out on the sofa, with Christine lying atop him. Her sobbing continued and he rubbed up and down her back slowly, murmuring, "Shh, mon coeur, it's all right! Whatever the problem is, we will work through it together."

That much is certain, the irritating little voice in her head chimed in.

Gradually she quieted, taking a couple of deep, shuddery breaths. "I'm sorry," she whispered, raising her head to look at him. "Everything just . . . seemed to crash down on me at once."

"Hmmm." Keeping his own counsel, he pressed her head back down on his shoulder and added, "But is that all that is troubling you, love?"

Pushing against his chest she sat up and moved a short distance away. "Yes, of course," she said brightly, again refusing to look directly at him. "What else could possibly be worrying me?"

What else, indeed, he wondered.

* * *

That night and each succeeding night Christine fell asleep almost as soon as her head touched the pillow. Although Erik was also tired, one night a week or so later he could not find a comfortable position, and finally he gave up, slipping from the bed without disturbing her.

Picking up some staff paper and his new fountain pen from his desk, he went to the low table in front of the fireplace and sat down on the floor. A new melody had been nagging at the back of his mind all day long. Perhaps finally I will be able to get some of it written down. To the accompaniment of the logs snapping in the fireplace he wrote furiously, racing to get down all the notes of the melancholy tune playing in his head.

He heard Christine murmur in her sleep and rose to check on her. Still sound asleep, she had thrown all the bedcovers aside, and he carefully pulled them back into place. "I believe I know a portion of what is bothering you, love," he whispered, his hand lingering low on her abdomen.

He returned to his work for a few minutes then realized he had hit a snag. Drumming his fingers on the table, he considered several options but discarded them all. Leaning back against the sofa, he pulled a crocheted throw across his upper body. Perhaps if I close my eyes and sit here a moment . . .

"Nooooo!"

Erik woke with a jolt, uncertain of how long he'd been asleep, the agonizing wail raising the hair on the back of his neck. He sat up and saw Christine thrashing around in their big bed.

He tossed aside the throw and moved quickly to her, the thin cotton sleeping pants he wore riding low on his hips. Carefully he eased down on the edge of the bed and caught one of her hands in his, holding it tightly. "Christine," he spoke to her quietly. "Wake up, mon coeur, it's just a bad dream."

Turning her hand so that the palm pressed against his bare chest, he reached down and cupped her cheek with his other hand. "Christine," he said, louder this time, "wake up."

Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, huge and swimming with tears. Her fingertips dug into his chest. "Erik?" she whispered. "What happened?" She tried to sit up. He slid an arm around her and pulled her to him.

"Another nightmare, I'm afraid," he said quietly. Rocking gently, he held her as she sniffled and told him about the latest in a long line of disturbing dreams. Each was a variation of the same theme—finding Stephen, but always too late.

Pulling back she wiped her eyes and cheeks with the backs of her hands. "Oh, Erik, it's been so many weeks and nothing! In less than a month it will be Christmas and . . ." Her voice broke and he pulled her back into his embrace.

"We must continue to believe that he will come home soon," said Erik, steadfastly ignoring the ache in his own heart. "Jack has only been gone a week this time; I have a feeling he is going in the correct direction now."

"I—I keep thinking about Thèrése. Something about her just . . . nags at me." Christine's voice was pensive and Erik glanced at her. "Something . . . woman to woman, I suppose."

He cupped her chin and dropped a light kiss on her lips. "We'll drive to the orphanage today, if the weather cooperates, and speak to her again, ma doux." He started to move off the bed but Christine caught his hand in a fierce grip.

"Please, Angel?"

Tracing her cheek with his fingertips, he leaned down and followed the same path with tiny kisses. "Please, what, love?" he asked, fairly certain he knew what she was going to say.

Christine took his face in both hands and stared deeply into his beautiful blue eyes. "Please—make me forget all of this—even for just a few hours?" Falling backward on the bed she pulled him down on top of her, felt her heart begin to pound in anticipation.

His weight pressing down on her had always been the most exquisite sensation. But ever since she had lost a baby when Nicky was not quite three years old, Erik had been extremely protective of her, often treating her like porcelain. This will not be one of those times, she thought fiercely.

"Christine," he murmured in between the kisses she pressed to his mouth, his neck, his chest. Finally wrenching away from her, he levered himself to one side and caught both of her hands in one of his. "I insist that you answer a question for me, love, before . . ."

Immediately she stiffened and tried to pull away. "If you don't want to . . . simply tell me," she muttered.

He kept her hands imprisoned and grasped her chin with his free hand. "Just answer my question, mon ange. We are expecting another child, are we not?"

* * *

When Victor and the boys returned that evening, Jolie still had not awakened, and immediately her papa sent Richard to town to fetch the doctor.

A young man recently graduated from the Sorbonne, Doctor Felix Bolduc firmly insisted that everyone but Sara Jane leave the room while he examined his patient. Gently he probed the lump on the girl's head as he asked, "How great a distance did she fall? What did she hit when she fell?"

"To tell you the truth, Doc, I don't know. The boy Stephen carried her to the house. You need to ask him these things. But I can tell you that her breathing has been regular and her heartbeat steady."

"Have the boy come in here, then," said the doctor as he opened Jolie's eyes one at a time and tried to check the pupils. "Wait—hold the lamp closer; yes, just there. Now move it away." Apparently satisfied with the results, he himself went to the door and called to Stephen.

Hands stuffed in his trouser pockets, the boy entered and stood at the foot of the bed, clearing his throat. "How is she, Monsieur le Docteur?"

"I cannot say just yet. I need information that Mlle. Sara Jane tells me only you have." Dr. Bolduc fired questions about the distance of Jolie's fall, what she struck when she fell and whether or not she had made any sound since her fall. Grunting as Stephen answered, the doctor uncovered Jolie's feet and picked one up, running his thumbnail up the sole. She flexed her foot away from the touch but did not wake.

"Hmph." His mouth a thin line, he tucked her foot back under the blanket. Going to the door he motioned for Victor and the boys to enter. "Except for the lump on her head, I can find nothing wrong," he told them. "I am afraid there is nothing to do except wait for her to awaken."

Victor reached out and shook his daughter's shoulder firmly. "Jolie Annette," he said in a stern voice, "wake up this instant!"

A pin could have been heard striking the floor, but there was no response from her. Blowing out a deep breath, Victor turned to the doctor. "Is there anything we can do besides wait?"

Shrugging, Bolduc replied, "Talk to her as much as possible, all of you. Perhaps . . . try to stimulate her senses—hot and cold, smell, touch . . ." He paused a moment then continued, "I believe that she will be fine, but only in God's good time."

Victor offered his hand and the doctor shook it firmly. As he followed Richard down the stairs, Bolduc called back over his shoulder, "Notify me as soon as there is any change."

* * *

By unspoken agreement, the majority of the attempts to wake Jolie fell to Sara Jane and Stephen. Victor and the boys each sat with her a few minutes after the doctor left and talked to her briefly. When Sara Jane saw how uncomfortable they were, she shooed them outside.

She and Stephen tried things with a strong odor first, among them ammonia and a rotten potato. These produced no results, but Sara Jane adamantly refused to consider Stephen's suggestion of bringing in a small amount of manure from the barn.

Frowning, he stared out the window. "May I bring Martha and her kittens inside, then?"

Pursing her lips, she considered the idea for a moment before snapping her fingers. "That just might do the trick," she said with a grin. "Think Martha will let you near her?"

"I will find a way to persuade her," retorted Stephen as he left the room. Within minutes he returned, carrying a kitten in each hand, Martha and the others not far behind him. Every few seconds an indignant 'mrow' came from Martha's throat, each one louder than the one preceding it.

When he reached Jolie's room, he placed the kittens on the blanket, chuckling as they chased each other up and down the length of the bed. The remaining kittens clambered up a corner of the blanket that hung over the edge of the bed and ran up Jolie's leg, pouncing on each other as they went.

Martha leaped gracefully onto the bed, automatically curling up near the girl's shoulder. Almost immediately her purr rumbled through the room, making Sara Jane and Stephen smile. From time to time she reached out and gave Jolie's cheek a lick with her sandpapery tongue.

"Well, nothin' to do now but wait and see what happens," murmured Sara Jane. "You stay here with her; I've got to go tend to supper."

The boy inhaled appreciatively. "It smells like . . . what did you call that dish? Chicken and du— Chicken and dom— Well, whatever it was, it was wonderful!"

"Just you keep that cat outa my kitchen til the meal is ready—I don't feel like fightin' her for the chicken, you hear?"

Gently he eased down on the side of the bed and picked up one of the kittens, who immediately began to claw his way up the boy's arm. "Ouch, that hurts, you little diable." Carefully he disengaged all the claws and set the kitten back on the blanket, whereupon it curled up on Jolie's chest and went to sleep.

Soon all the others were dozing as well and he sat down in the chair, slumping backward. Before he realized it, his eyes had drifted closed and he slept also.

It seemed only seconds later when Martha jumped into his lap and swatted his nose with her paw. "Why did you do that?" he mumbled, wiping the sleep from his eyes as the cat jumped to the floor.

A moan and movement from the bed had him surging to his feet. "Jolie! Wake up!"

"Ste—Stephen?" Her voice was thin and reedy, but at that moment it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. "What—what happened?"

"Don't you remember?" He stuck his head out the bedroom door and yelled for Sara Jane. As she pounded up the stairs, he said, "You fell through the rotten boards in the loft and hit your head. You've been unconscious for almost two days."

The housekeeper burst into the room and gathered Jolie up in her arms. "Oh, honey, oh, baby girl, we were so worried about you! How do you feel?"

"My head hurts!" she replied, wincing at the pain. "And—I feel a little dizzy, too."

None of them realized someone had followed Sara Jane up the stairs until a strange voice said sarcastically, "Well now, isn't this the cozy little picture?"

Instinctively Stephen moved in between the new arrival and the womenfolk, bristling at the man's tone. "Who are you, monsieur, and what business do you have here?"

The man, who barely came to Stephen's shoulder, sneered up at him. "You need to learn your place, boy. As to who I am, why, I'm Louis Chalfont—Victor's brother. And just who the hell are you?"

**A/N:** The 'role' of Martha, and any other cat that I might include in my stories, is inspired by 21 years' worth of wonderful memories of my Tabby-- July 28, 1984 - August 5, 2005.


	15. Chapter 15

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: At the end of the previous chapter, Louis Chalfont showed up at Victor's, just as Jolie regained consciousness.**

Chapter Fifteen

No one spoke for a long moment. Then Jolie piped up, "If you are Papa's brother, then why has he never mentioned you to us?"

Louis' face flushed, making the fading bruises all the more noticeable.

"Yes, monsieur. I have worked for this family for almost fifteen years and I have never heard M. Victor speak of you." Sara Jane's voice had an edge to it as she rose from the bed and came to stand shoulder to shoulder with Stephen.

"Stephen," she continued in a slightly more pleasant tone, her eyes focused on Louis, "please go find M. Victor and tell him about his 'visitor'."

"Certainment, Tante Sara Jane," replied the young man. "But I believe that this . . . gentleman . . . will accompany me," he added, sounding as haughty as any aristocrat she had ever heard.

Louis sneered up at him. "Run along, boy, and do as you're told. I'm staying right here." Leering at Sara Jane, he dismissed the other occupants of the room, which proved to be a grave mistake.

His hand snaking out, Stephen grabbed Louis' arm and spun him around, jerking the arm up behind his back. The little man bellowed in pain as Stephen unwittingly abused the same arm that Erik had mistreated a few days earlier.

"I said," Stephen ground out, "you are coming with me." He marched Louis out the door and down the stairs, maintaining a tight grip on the arm.

Sagging in relief when she heard them go out the back door, Sara Jane turned to Jolie. "Now then," she said briskly, "let's get a cold compress on that lump, honey, and see if we can't get the swelling down some."

"Is that horrible-smelling little man really my uncle?"

The housekeeper fought a smile; she could well understand the girl's consternation at such a thought. "I don't know, hon. We'll have to wait and see what your papa says."

-ooOoo-

"Papa, who is that man with Stephen?"

Victor looked up at Francois' question and swore under his breath. Throwing down the file he'd been using on the hooves of one of the draft horses, he walked out the barn door, his hands clenching and unclenching. "Let him go, Stephen," he said quietly, scowling as Louis smirked.

"This man says he is your brother, monsieur."

Victor grunted. "Unfortunately, he tells the truth. We had the same parents." Jerking his thumb over his shoulder, he added, "Please go inside and wait with my sons." He watched as the boy moved to the open door of the barn and stood beside Francois and Richard. Then Victor's hand shot out and he backhanded Louis, the blow nearly sending the smaller man to his knees.

"You lying bâtard!" spat Victor. "How dare you show your weasel face here after what you tried to do to my Bernadette?" Chest heaving, he stalked toward the other man, who had the good sense to back away.

Almost stumbling in his haste, Louis held his hands out in front of him like a shield. "Now, Victor," he sputtered, "that was just a misunderstanding!"

"Misunderstanding, my ass! After I ran you off, she told me you tried to rape her." Fists clenched, Victor took another step toward the other man. "I knew I should have killed you that day. Set foot on my property again and I will. And that is no idle threat, brother. That is a promise." He took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly. "Now get the hell out of here, while you are still alive—before I change my mind and kill you where you stand."

Recognizing the wisdom in retreat, Louis turned tail and fled the barnyard.

A thunderous silence followed his precipitous departure, the three young men standing with their mouths agape. Finally Francois found his voice. "Papa, what is going on?" He touched his father gently on the shoulder.

Sighing, Victor smiled sadly at them. "It is a sad tale, one that I would give much not to have to repeat." Seeing Stephen trying to slip away, he raised his voice. "No, please stay. You need to hear this also."

With the boys standing around him, he scrubbed his face with one hand as he gathered his thoughts. "Louis and I never got along, even as children. He was much the same then as you saw him today. I think all of us, even Maman, were glad when he left home.

"This . . . incident happened when you were not quite two years old, Richard, and you were still a baby, Francois. For whatever reason, Louis showed up here one day. Your maman was hanging wash on the clothesline when he came up behind her and pushed her to the ground. Naturally she began to fight him, which of course he enjoyed."

Stephen felt bile rise in his throat and he swallowed hard. He heard Richard growl and Francois curse softly and privately agreed with them.

Victor smiled unpleasantly. "Luckily for her, she had a clothespin in her hand when he forced her to the ground. Somehow she managed to jab him with it, just under one eye. It was enough to allow her to get away from him and run into the fields to find me."

"Good for her!" The words escaped before Stephen could stop them.

The older man gave him a sad smile. "You would have liked my Bernadette." He blew out a deep breath. "We will need to be on our guard. Louis is a vile man, a weasel, a snake—I cannot think of enough words that describe him. He will want revenge, I would bet my life upon it."

"Jolie and Tante Sara Jane," murmured Stephen. Suddenly his eyes widened and he breathed, "Sacrebleu! Jolie!" He turned to Victor. "A thousand pardons, monsieur! In all the . . . excitement, I forgot to tell you. Jolie is awake!"

Victor closed his eyes and whispered, "Merci a le bon Dieu." After a moment he opened his eyes and continued, "Yes, it would be just like him to try to harm them to get revenge against any of us, since we all played a part in his humiliation. We will warn them and we will all be more vigilant."

-ooOoo-

"We are expecting another child, are we not?" Erik's question hung in the air.

Christine's bottom lip quivered and she nodded miserably. "Yes," she whispered.

He gathered her in his arms, frowning as he felt her trembling. "Are you well, love? Have you been sick in the mornings?" With the other children she had sailed through the pregnancies with few problems, but with the child she had lost at five months, she had been violently ill every morning.

Clutching him tightly, she shook her head. "No," she said softly, "thank God." After a moment she went on, "I'm frightened, Erik. I don't want to go through that again."

"Nor do I, ma doux." Gently he eased the two of them down on the bed and Christine turned automatically so that their bodies fit together like spoons. Erik's hand went to her abdomen and her hand covered his, their fingers intertwined tightly.

Without realizing it, he began to hum a lullaby he had often sung to the children, and gradually felt Christine relax into sleep. Pressing a soft kiss to her temple, he thought, I must ask Mère to light a candle for us. Several candles.

Lying next to his wife, he tried to focus on her slow steady breathing. He even breathed with her, hoping it would help him fall asleep. But the horrible memories flashing from more than five years ago refused to permit it. Tears stung his eyes as he recalled . . .

Christine's loud cry had awakened him and when he'd flung back the bedclothes, he'd seen the pool of blood forming beneath her. She clutched her stomach, writhing in pain, begging God not to take her child.

By the time the midwife arrived Christine had delivered a stillborn boy. He was buried with the name Guillaume. Erik had never found the courage to tell her that the child's tiny face had been slightly malformed. Strangely, she had never asked, as though she had known without being told.

It must be a good sign, he thought sleepily, that she has not been sick this time.

Christine woke slowly, feeling the heavy weight of Erik's arm across her waist and the comforting warmth of him at her back. She lay completely still, taking stock of her physical condition. She still felt a bit tired, but thought that might be due to the nightmare. No queasiness, thanks be to God.

"How long have you known?" Erik's voice rumbled in her ear and she smiled in the pre-dawn darkness.

Carefully she turned to face him, reaching up to smooth away the frown lines on his forehead. "A few days," she murmured, searching his face in the faint light from the fireplace. "Are—are you—angry, Erik?"

He stared at her for a long moment. Then he pulled her into his arms and held her tightly. "No, love," he whispered, "I am not angry. I am concerned with your health, however." He eased away and splayed his big hand over the place where the baby lay nestled within her.

"With all that we have been through in the last few weeks, I am afraid that this will tax your health, ma chère." Frowning, he studied her closely, noting the hollows in her cheeks. "You have lost weight that you can ill afford to lose, Christine." His hand caressed her abdomen. I feel a slight bulge there—but if she is just a few weeks' along, I shouldn't feel anything yet.

Her bottom lip trembled and she turned away. "You are angry," she whispered as a lone tear traced its way down her cheek.

He caught the teardrop with his thumb. "I will become angry if you do not take care of yourself," he said firmly. "And I will be watching you, to make sure that you are doing all the things you should, and none of the things you should not."

She opened her mouth to assure him but he continued before she could speak. "And if I must, I will enlist the aid of Nicky and the girls to watch you when I cannot, and report to me."

Her mouth opened in indignation; several seconds passed before she was calm enough to speak. Her eyes flashing, she pulled out of his arms. "Is that really necessary? Do you trust me so little?"

"It is not a matter of trust. It is simply that I know you, love. If I do not have . . . informers, you will exhaust yourself."

A hot retort sprang to her lips but died when he added, "I will do whatever I have to in order to keep you well, mon coeur. I refuse to take any chances with you or this child." He swallowed hard before he added, "I . . . I cannot lose you again."

Her eyes filled and she cupped his face with both hands. "Forgive me for over-reacting. But I refuse to live in a gilded cage for the next eight months." Blinking back the tears that threatened to fall, she continued in a quiet voice, "That would drive me insane, on top of . . . everything else."

Erik sighed heavily. "It seems we are at an impasse."

"Is there no possibility of a compromise?" For a fleeting second Christine considered using all her feminine wiles to convince him that she would indeed take very good care of her health, and therefore he would not need to keep such a close watch on her. Then he crushed her hopes with a single word.

"No."


	16. Chapter 16

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: At the end of the previous chapter, Erik and Christine 'argued' about her preganancy... he tells her there is no chance of compromise.**

Chapter 16

The terse syllable grew until it seemed to fill the room, crowding out all the oxygen.

"Damn you," whispered Christine and she scrambled out of bed, moving across the room toward the fireplace. She stopped several feet from it, rubbing her hands up and down her arms.

She heard Erik behind her and whirled to face him. "Of all the despicable, under-handed, loathsome things . . ." Too angry to continue, she turned her back on him, flinching when he cupped her shoulders.

"Call down whatever manner of curses upon my head that you wish," he said calmly. "It will change nothing."

"Suppose I bribe the children to lie to you?" she bit out, shrugging off his touch.

"Bribe them with what?" he countered, making her groan in frustration.

Muttering, she moved directly in front of the fireplace and stared at the low flames. "Oh, you think you're so smart, don't you? You have this all figured out. Well, we'll just see . . ."

Erik took her shoulders and gave her a tiny shake. "Christine, stop it," he growled. Something in his tone made her halt her tirade and all her bravado drained away.

He turned her to face him, his stomach clenching as a single tear coursed down her cheek.

She slumped under his hands. Slowly she looked up at him; in her eyes he saw confusion, hurt, and a tiny flicker of fear.

"Please, Erik," she said, her breath hitching on a sob, "please don't do this."

Carefully, fearing she would resist, he pulled her into his embrace. For a split second she remained stiff. Then she melted against him, wrapped her arms tightly around him, and buried her face against his bare chest.

He let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and rested his scarred cheek on the top of her head. For several moments they stood quietly, taking comfort in each other's arms.

"Let's sit down, love," murmured Erik. He moved past the low table where his composition still lay, and settled her on the love seat. After tucking the crocheted throw around her shoulders, he stoked up the fire and returned to sit next to her. She snuggled close to him and laid her head on his shoulder with a sigh.

"We need to tell the girls and Nicky soon," he began in a low voice as he toyed with the ends of her hair. "No, wait," he added quickly when she tried to pull away. "I swear to you, mon coeur, on all that I hold dear—I will only ask them to tell me if you seem to be overly tired. And you will promise me to lie down and rest for an hour every morning and every afternoon."

He felt her relax against him and continued. "And you will tell me or will send for me immediately if there is anything—if you feel anything—out of the ordinary."

Her hand crept up from his waist and rested over his heart. "Yes, I promise," Christine said sleepily.

A moment later her breathing was slow and deep; he was uncertain if she knew what she had said. "Regardless, I will hold you to that promise, love," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

He lifted her into his arms and made his way back to the bed. A slight frown crossed her forehead as he placed her on the now-cold sheets, but she sighed in her sleep when he settled himself behind her and pulled the bedcovers up over them.

A soft sound woke Erik some time later and he shook his head to clear it. When he remembered the dream he'd been having, gooseflesh spread down his torso like a flood. Is that possible? he wondered. He distinctly remembered two babies in the dream—Christine had held one and he the other, both infants crying lustily.

Several moments later Christine woke with a jerk; Erik's arm tightened around her waist in reflex. "Are you all right, love?" he asked in a raspy voice.

"Yes," she murmured, "but I just had the most . . . unusual dream." The gooseflesh that had spread over Erik's body a moment ago reappeared in a torrent.

"We were each holding a baby, both of them crying," he stated.

She turned and stared up at him, her mouth falling open in astonishment. "How did—you had the same dream?"

Erik nodded solemnly, and Christine shivered. "Sainte Mère," she breathed, one hand going automatically to her abdomen. His hand covered hers immediately, their fingers entwining as they had earlier.

A heavy silence fell over the room, save for the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the mantel clock. Finally Erik spoke in a whisper. "Is there any way to know for certain?"

"Before I go into labor? I'm not positive. Perhaps a doctor or midwife could tell, once it . . . becomes obvious I am with child." A bit of color rose in Christine's cheeks, making Erik look at her with concern. "With each of the children, Madame Piccout—the midwife— always . . . felt of my abdomen, especially the closer it came to the delivery."

Erik cleared his throat. "I see." Feeling heat creep up his neck, he swallowed and said, "So she should be able to tell if there are two babies or only one."

Christine nodded. "But not for several months." Another long moment of near-silence passed, and then she spoke softly. "Are you worried?"

* * *

"And so, we must all be very careful. Louis is not to be trusted—not one single word he utters is to be believed. Unless, of course, he is talking about hurting someone or getting revenge." Victor pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and sat down heavily.

Jolie's eyes were huge in her pale face. She scooted closer to Stephen on the bench at the table. He put his arm around her and tucked her against his side. "Lady," she whispered, looking up at him fearfully.

Without thinking, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and gave her a squeeze. "We will watch Lady, too, petite soeur, never fear."

Sara Jane stared unseeing out the kitchen window. Filthy little bastard, she thought viciously. Guess I'll have to start carryin' that switchblade of mine. Belatedly she realized that Victor had been speaking to her. "I'm sorry, monsieur. What did you say?"

Victor grunted and hooked his thumbs on his suspenders. "We will try to ensure that one of us is nearby at all times. However, if we are not and Louis is stupid enough to show his ugly face here, you will ring the bell as you do for meals—or make as much noise as possible, by whatever means."

Nodding, Sara Jane said, "I understand. I had planned to go into town for supplies tomorrow, monsieur. Do you want me to take Jolie with me?"

Victor studied his daughter's pallid features and shook his head. "No, I think it might be best if she stays here. Stephen, you will make sure that she does not do too much on her first day out of bed."

Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at Jolie's protruding bottom lip, Stephen bobbed his head in quick agreement. "Of course, M.Victor."

* * *

"Dammit!" Sara Jane muttered under her breath as she grabbed for the bolts of fabric she had bumped with her elbow. She managed to catch only one before a pair of large male hands reached past her to stop the rest of them from toppling to the floor.

Standing in the middle of the general dry goods store in Sainte Anne du Jardin, for not the first time Sara Jane wished she could wear trousers like the men. Damn petticoats and such are nothin' but a nuisance!

"Here you go, ma'am." The deep, slightly drawling voice speaking English made her breath back up in her throat.

No! It can't be! Swallowing hard, she pressed a hand to her pounding heart. After a moment she turned to thank the man who had caught the rest of the bolts. Because he had spoken to her in English she did, also. "Thank you, sir."

Slowly she raised her eyes, taking in his appearance. Tall, about four or five inches more than her own height, sharp brown eyes with squint lines at the corners, receding hairline. He wore a tan coat that came almost to his knees and strange blue trousers. A tan leather vest over a white shirt and scuffed boots completed his attire.

"You're welcome," he answered, before turning to walk away. She took the opportunity to duck behind some tall shelves and watch him speak to the shopkeeper. Taking a deep breath she held it and listened to their conversation.

"Good morning," the man spoke to the shopkeeper in passable French. "I'm looking for this young man. Have you seen him around here?" He passed a piece of paper that had a picture on it to the shopkeeper.

Sara Jane nearly gasped aloud. The face on the paper was Stephen's; she would bet money on it. Frowning, she moved a little so she could see more clearly.

"His parents have hired me to find him. He's not in any trouble, as far as I know. They're just worried about him and want him to come home." He paused as the shopkeeper studied the drawing, and then sighed when the man handed it back and with a shake of his head.

"May I put this up in here, monsieur, perhaps by the door?" Receiving an affirmative answer, he accepted a nail and a hammer from the shopkeeper and tacked up the notice.

"Where might someone find you, monsieur, if they have information about this young man?" the shopkeeper asked.

The question made Sara Jane hold her breath again.

"I'll be at the livery stable, monsieur. The owner has agreed to rent me his spare room."

The sound of the door opening and closing moved Sara Jane into action. Coming out from her hiding place, she quickly laid the bolt of cloth on the counter, telling the proprietor, "I will return later." She hurried out the door and down the street in the direction of the livery, frowning when she didn't see the man.

As she crossed a side street, long arms reached out and pulled her between two buildings. A large, calloused palm closed over her mouth, muffling her cries of outrage as she was hauled against a male body. Kicking out with her feet, she landed at least one blow, making the man grunt.

He spun her around and pushed her up against the building. "Why were you following me?" he demanded, his voice harsh and cold.

Sara Jane stared up into the brown eyes that had haunted her for years. She stopped fighting, and he released her, backing slowly away. Swallowing, she said, "Were you in St. Louis in the summer of 1862?"

"Yes. What has that—" He sounded puzzled, a frown furrowing his brow. Then his face cleared and he asked softly, "Are you . . . are you the girl from the alley?"

Nodding, her eyes filled with tears and she reached up to touch his cheek with her fingertips. "Yes," she whispered. "Thank you."


	17. Chapter 17

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: I hope I don't give anyone too big of a shock, updating again in less than a month... :-) Just don't expect it to happen all the time... At the end of Ch. 16, Sara Jane meets someone from her past.**

Chapter Seventeen

"I've been waitin' to say that for a long time," added Sara Jane, her hand cupping his cheek.

Unsure how to respond, Jack reached up and took her hand in his. He cleared his throat. "I just wish I'd been in time to stop the bastard. Beggin' your pardon, ma'am," he added quickly.

Standing in the alley, her hand tucked securely in his, Sara Jane grinned up at him. "Oh, don't worry about offendin' me. I've called him every name in the book and then some."

Her smile faded and Jack saw a shadow of pain in her big blue eyes. Gently he rubbed his thumb back and forth across her knuckles. "How badly were you injured?" he asked in a low voice. "I wanted to stay, to make certain you were going to be all right, but I had to ship out early the next morning."

Taking a deep breath, Sara Jane tried to calm the sudden pounding of her heart. She exhaled slowly and said, "Badly enough. The doc thought I had been . . . damaged inside, and he must've been right. The first time I tried to get out of bed, after bein' flat of my back for three months, I . . . um . . ."

Bright color blossomed on her cheeks and Jack frowned. "What happened?"

"I lost my baby," she told him flatly. "Even though it was a child of rape, I loved it. Wasn't its fault how it came to be. Couldn't even tell if it was a boy or a girl. I—" Two huge tears rolled down her cheeks and she swiped at them angrily with the back of her free hand.

"Oh, God! I'm sorry, ma'am."

"My name's Sara Jane Jones," she informed him, tugging her hand free of his grasp.

He made a little bow from the waist. "Jack Templeton at your service, Miss Jones. It is miss, isn't it?"

Sara Jane nodded then shivered when a gust of cold wind blew through the alley, stirring her skirts and flaring the tail of Jack's long coat.

"Is there somewhere we could go—sit and talk for a while?" Jack gave her a small hopeful smile.

She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, the town clock struck the hour. "Lord, help! Three o'clock already?" Glancing at Jack she shook her head. "As much as I'd like that, I can't. I've got to get my shopping done and get back before dark."

She started to walk past him out into the street then stopped, as if trying to make a decision. Going up on her toes, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Thank you, again, for everything," she whispered.

He watched her stride quickly down the street and enter the dry goods store.

Unbeknownst to either of them, someone else was watching also.

* * *

Louis Chalfont was feeling quite pleased with himself. After Victor threatened to kill him, Louis decided that he would not have the chance, because Louis intended to kill his sainted brother first. 

Stumbling back into Sainte Anne du Jardin, Louis set himself up in an abandoned shed on the outskirts of town, not far from the livery stable. He was prowling through town when he noticed the tall red-haired bitch who cooked and kept house for Victor coming out of the dry goods store.

Louis ducked out of sight, watching as the woman hurried down the street. Suddenly she disappeared and he came slinking from his hiding place to find out what had happened to her. He edged along the building to the corner and took a quick glance down the alley.

Louis grinned evilly when the man pushed her up against the wall then scowled in disgust when he did no more than speak to her. Waste of a good piece of ass, if you ask me. Louis' eyes widened when the woman touched the man's cheek, then kissed him and walked back to the store.

He waited until she drove off in a wagon before he strolled down the street to the tiny café. Ordering the cheapest bottle of whiskey available, he propped his feet on the table and began to plot his ultimate revenge.

Need to find out what the connection is between that red-headed bitch and the man I saw her with, he decided, then see how I can use him to get to her.

He took a swallow of whiskey, feeling the fire in his throat as it went down. Pissant town like this, shouldn't take more than a day.

Just then Jack walked into the café, nearly causing Louis to choke on his whiskey.

Taking a seat on the other side of the room, with his back to the wall, Jack studied each occupant of the café. Mentally he categorized those who were there simply to eat or socialize, and those who might have other reasons for being there. He smiled up at the young woman who came to take his order.

"Bonjour, monsieur. What may I bring you from the kitchen?"

"What is the soup of the day, mademoiselle?"

"Our specialty, monsieur—cream of potato."

His stomach growled loudly, and they both smiled at the sound. "That sounds delicious. And coffee, please." She dipped a curtsy and went back into the kitchen.

Jack's gaze settled on Louis and he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. I'll be damned! That looks like the sketch Erik made of Louis Chalfont. What the hell is he doing here? All the instincts that had served him so well as a Pinkerton agent sprang to attention. Under the cover of the table Jack checked to make sure the holster of his Colt was tied securely to his leg.

Louis took his bottle of whiskey and left soon after Jack's arrival, and Jack was able to enjoy his soup in peace. He grinned to himself as he listened to the locals' gossip. After paying for his meal, he made his way to the door. Then he stopped and reconsidered. Turning back to the girl who had waited on him, he asked, "Is there another door?"

She gave him a puzzled look, but nodded and said, "Through the kitchen, monsieur."

He tossed her an American silver dollar as an extra tip and gave her a two-fingered salute. Threading his way through the kitchen, he eased the door open and searched the alley. Nothing but a few blowing leaves and scraps of paper. He drew his Colt, holding it with the barrel pointed up, close to his side.

Stealthily, he made his way around the building to the front. Sure enough, Chalfont was attempting to hide in the deepening shadows to one side of the café door. Jack slipped up behind him, lodging the end of his gun's barrel under Chalfont's left ear. "If you want to survive this day, don't make any sudden moves," Jack told him.

* * *

"Stand still, boy." Sara Jane spoke around the pins in her mouth. "I'm never gonna get the correct measurements if you keep fidgetin' like that." 

"Sorry," murmured Stephen. He glared at Jolie, who lay on her stomach on the bed, wishing by all that was holy that she would leave the room. She merely smirked at him, making him clench his fists. Sara Jane had insisted that the only way she would be able to get accurate measurements for his new shirts was if he were bare-chested.

He glared again at Jolie, fighting the urge to cross his arms over his upper body. The first time he'd done that, Sara Jane had jabbed him with one of her pins and ordered him to drop his arms.

Realizing what was making him so edgy Sara Jane jerked her chin at the door. "Jolie, I need you to go down to the cellar and get me some potatoes." When the girl didn't move, Sara Jane said sternly, "Now."

The housekeeper could feel the tension drain out of Stephen once Jolie left the room. Pausing to note the sleeve length on a scrap of paper, Sara Jane said quietly, "There's a man in town looking for you."

Stephen's eyes widened in panic and she added, "He came into the dry goods store yesterday with a paper that had your likeness on it. I imagine he's put up several around town."

Hands on her hips, she looked the young man squarely in the eye. "Lucky for you, though, you don't go to town much, and probably anyone who saw you when you first showed up here won't remember you."

Stephen sat down heavily on the bed. His mind racing, he didn't hear what Sara Jane said to him until she grabbed his shoulder and gave him a shake. "I'm sorry, Tante Sara Jane. What did you say?"

Giving him a nudge, she muttered, "Move over." When he complied she sat next to him. "The man who was askin' about you told the shopkeeper that your parents hired him to find you. Said you weren't in any trouble; they just want you to come home."

Stephen said nothing, unable to think clearly. Rising from the bed, he wrapped his arms around himself and paced the short distance to the fireplace.

"You gonna run off again?" Sara Jane's blunt question surprised him and he stared at her blankly. "Or are you ready to go home?"

"I—I don't know." Confused even more than ever, Stephen sank back down on the bed. "I don't know what to do, Tante Sara Jane." I miss them! I wonder how much Nicky has grown since I've been gone?

"Do you still feel that what happened to the colt was your fault? That you were to blame for his death?" Handing him his old shirt, she searched his face as he put it on. "Think about it long and hard, Stephen. It seems to me that you've gotten past a lot of the hurt you were carryin' when you landed here. If that's the case, maybe it's time for you to go on back home."

Hearing Jolie pounding up the stairs, Sara Jane stood and gathered up her sewing basket. "Like I said, you think about it. If you need to talk about it, come find me."

Stephen went through the rest of the day in a daze, not eating much that night, not hearing most of what was said to him. He sat on his bed in the barn, the rough blanket draped across his shoulders, his mind racing this way and that. Am I ready to go home? he asked himself.

A voice in his head replied, Can you face your maman and Erik, accept whatever punishment they give you?

Throwing aside the blanket with a growl of frustration, Stephen got up and went into the barn. Hearing Lady nicker softly, he walked to her stall and opened the door, picking up the curry comb as he did. She tossed her head as if glad to see him and butted him in the chest.

"Ah, belle fille," he whispered. "How will I know when it is time to go home—if it is ever time to go home?" Slowly he began to brush the little mare, the rhythm of it soothing him as much as her. "Tante Sara Jane is right, as she is about most things. I do feel less guilty about what happened to Star. And I have you and your bèbè to thank for that."

Wrapping his arms around the horse's neck, he pressed his cheek to the top of her head for a moment. Then he pulled back and scratched her along her neck in a favorite spot. He stared into her big brown eyes for several long seconds, seeing trust and perhaps what might be called affection. "Merci, ma belle, for being here."

* * *

As he had promised her, Erik and Christine traveled the next day to the orphanage to speak with Thèrése again. However, when they arrived, they discovered that Mère and Thèrése had left the day before. The Franciscan monastery near Sainte Anne du Jardin had sent word to Mère about a girl who had been recently orphaned. Since the monks could not keep the girl for more than a few days, Mère and Thèrése had gone to bring her to Our Lady of the Angels. 

Leaving a message with the sisters for Mère to contact them as soon as she returned, Erik and Christine drove home. He held her snugly against him with one arm. Idly Christine toyed with the end of the scarf tied around Erik's throat. Sensing something amiss, he slowed the horse a bit and said, "What is it, love?"

For a moment she didn't answer. Then she straightened and looked at him. "Do you remember when I said that something about Thèrése nagged at me?" He nodded and she continued, "I'm getting a similar feeling about Sainte Anne du Jardin."


	18. Chapter 18

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: I guess Stephen wants to get home by Christmas-- that's the only explanation I can give for writing so quickly in the last few weeks... :-) At the end of Ch. 17, Erik and Christine had gone to the orphanage to speak to Therese again.**

Chapter Eighteen

A long moment passed before Erik responded. "Do you believe that is where Stephen is?"

Biting her lip, Christine nodded slowly. "Yes. Yes, I do. I have no facts to base it on, just . . . a feeling."

Erik flicked the reins over the horse's back, urging it to a quicker pace. The wind had shifted direction since they'd left the orphanage, now coming from the north. A light snow began to fall. "I wish we had some way of knowing where Jack is," he murmured.

"Perhaps he will have a chance to send us a telegram soon," said Christine hopefully. She shivered as a sudden gust of wind blew the snow into their faces. Scooting closer to her husband, she startled a grunt from him.

"What are you trying to do, madam?" he asked, his voice heavy with laughter. "Crawl into my clothing with me?"

She flashed him an impish grin that made his heart turn over. "That is a wonderful idea. Remind me of it later tonight."

He chuckled at her sauciness, very happy and quite relieved to see some of her spirit return. The snow was falling faster now, beginning to accumulate on the grass along the side of the road. "We need to discuss Christmas presents for the children soon," he said.

Swallowing hard, Christine refused to allow the ache in her heart to overwhelm her. "Marie has knitted mittens for the girls and Nicky, and . . . a scarf for Stephen."

"And he will be home to make use of it. Perhaps not by Christmas, but . . ." His voice trailed off when Christine inhaled deeply. Erik gave her a sharp look.

"I believe it; truly I do." She smiled, a brave little smile that made his heart turn over again. "For the first time since we discovered he was gone, I honestly believe that he will come home to us safe and sound."

* * *

"Lord! I need a keeper!" Rummaging through the pantry, Sara Jane shook her head in disgust. "How in the Sam Hill did I forget to buy flour and bakin' powder, of all things?" 

Tapping the flour tin against her hand, she judged the amount remaining to be less than one cup. "Well, there's no hope for it. I've gotta make another trip into town."

And maybe you forgot on purpose, so you could go back and see if that man is still there, a little voice in her head taunted her.

"You just hush," she muttered, untying her apron with a jerk. Grabbing up her coat and reticule, she stomped out to the barn and saddled a horse.

Stephen called to her as she rode out of the barnyard. "Tante Sara Jane! Where are you going? It's snowing!"

"Forgot the flour—I'll be back as soon as I can. Keep an eye on Jolie!"

* * *

"Better make that ten pounds of flour," Sara Jane told the shopkeeper, "what with Christmas comin' on." 

"You do a lot of baking for Christmas?" Jack's drawling voice sent a shiver down her spine.

Turning, she gave him a grin. "I make some different things, you bet. Wouldn't be Christmas without special cookies and such." She turned back to the shopkeeper and paid for her purchases.

"Let me carry those out for you, Miss Jones." Jack hefted both sacks of flour and waited for Sara Jane to precede him.

She held the door for him, another smile sneaking onto her face. "Call me Sara Jane." After indicating which horse was hers, she tied the bag of smaller items on the saddle horn and Jack put one bag of flour into each saddlebag.

"Have you got time for that cup of coffee today?"

The question made her heart give a little kick. Before she answered, she looked up at the sky. The snow had stopped by the time she arrived in town, and occasionally there was a bit of blue sky. "I think so, but we'll need to keep an eye on the weather."

Gallantly Jack offered his arm. "May I have the pleasure of your company, Miss Jones?"

"Mr. Templeton, I would be delighted." Tucking her hand in the crook of his elbow, they walked to the café.

Again he chose a table toward the rear and pulled out a chair for Sara Jane. He took a seat at right angles to her so he could keep an eye on the door. Even after his "conversation" with Chalfont, Jack still had a bad feeling about the man.

Leaning his forearms on the table, he smiled and said, "So, tell me all about Sara Jane Jones."

Before she could speak, the waitress came up to them and greeted Jack warmly. "Back again so soon, monsieur?"

"I have a terrible weakness for your croissants, Mademoiselle Yvette. I won't live through the day without another one," he replied, his eyes crinkling in laughter.

Yvette shook her head and grinned at Sara Jane. "Ooh, la, madame! This one—he is quite the charmer, ne c'est pas? I know what he wants to eat. What may I bring you today, madame? A cup of chocolate, perhaps?"

Sara Jane gave Jack a sideways glance. "The croissants are that good, huh?" At his expression of ecstasy, she sighed, "Well . . . with a recommendation like that . . ."

After the girl departed, Sara Jane worked her gloves off and laid them on the table. "So you want to know all about me. The whole story or just the high points?"

Jack helped her take off her coat and draped it over the back of an empty chair. "As much as you feel comfortable telling me, Sara Jane."

Ignoring the little frisson that went up her spine when he said her name, she blew out a deep breath and gathered her thoughts. "I was born and grew up on a small farm south of St. Louis, in the Ozark foothills. I was the oldest of six—two girls, four boys. My grandmother Jones left me a little money when she died, and Pa suggested that I use it to enroll at Miss Kingsbury's."

Pausing when Yvette returned with their food, Sara Jane stirred her cup of chocolate before continuing. "That was when I was sixteen, a year before . . . we met."

Jack scalded his tongue on his first sip of coffee and set the cup down with a clatter. "You don't have to talk about that day, Sara Jane," he said in a low voice.

She broke off a corner of her croissant, crumbling it with her fingers. "I won't say it's all right, 'cause it's not. And I won't say that it doesn't hurt to think about it, 'cause it still does. But . . . I'd like to tell you, Jack, if you're sure you want to know."

He reached out and took one of her hands, held it tightly. To Sara Jane's great surprise, he brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "Yes, I'm sure."

* * *

Francois came into the house and found Stephen at his wits' end with Jolie. "Go," he told Stephen with a soft laugh. "Escape from the depths of madness for a little while." 

Stephen flashed him a grateful smile and grabbed his coat. Out the door before Francois could change his mind, he went straight to the barn. He picked up a bridle and slipped it over Lady's head. "Bien, ma belle," he said as she bobbed her head eagerly. "The snow has stopped—let's have ourselves a good run."

Vaulting onto the mare's back, he let her become accustomed to his weight without a saddle. She danced sideways a step or two then settled. With a nudge to her flank they went through the doors into the crisp December afternoon.

Stephen turned Lady to the left and they trotted through the barnyard into the nearby woods. A few weeks ago he had discovered a trail that led to a small pond. It was a peaceful spot and he needed to think.

Several big pine trees stood a few feet back from the water. They provided a natural shelter and Stephen tied Lady's reins to a low-hanging branch. He dusted off a fallen log and sat down.

"Ah, belle fille, what shall I do?" Lady's ears flicked in the direction of his voice but she continued cropping what grass she could reach. "Perhaps I am ready to go home. I miss them all terribly. And yet, everyone here—including you—has become like family to me also."

After pushing to his feet, he walked to the edge of the pond. He smiled, remembering Nicky's excitement at finding the pollywogs. That day seems a lifetime ago now. He sighed heavily.

A gust of wind stirred the surface of the water and made him turn up the collar of his coat. One of Mère Genevieve's favorite sayings came to mind. The right thing will happen.

* * *

"You must always believe, my child. The right thing will happen." Mère Genevieve put her arm around the tiny girl sitting next to her on the buggy seat and gave her a quick squeeze. The girl sniffled loudly and Mère pressed a handkerchief into her hands. "Now, wipe your eyes and we will begin our journey home." 

Thèrése sat in the back of the buggy, next to the girl's small valise. Poor little thing, she thought. At least I had my aunt until I was older. "Patrice," she asked softly, "do you like kittens?"

The little girl nodded slowly, turning to glance at Thèrése. "Yes," she said.

"Would you like to help me care for the kittens we have at Our Lady of the Angels?" A tiny nod and a wan smile were the only reply. Thèrése leaned against the back of the buggy, unsure what to say or what to do to get Patrice to respond to her.

Mère gave her a look over her shoulder and shook her head slightly. Be patient, she mouthed and Thèrése nodded.

Even though she had helped with the younger children who came to the orphanage, she still could not fully imagine what they were going through. That's something to be thankful for, she mused, watching the snowy countryside pass by.

As they did several times a day, her thoughts went to Stephen, wondering where he was and if he was well. A movement and a flash of color caught her eye. She could see only enough to know it was someone riding a black horse through the woods in the opposite direction.

Thèrése leaned forward again. "Mère?" she asked. "Tomorrow, if the weather and your schedule permit it, may we visit the Montenegros?"

The nun turned her head and studied her for a moment, considering her request. "Is there a specific reason why you wish to see them, my child?"

Resisting the urge to fidget under the Mother Superior's scrutiny, Thèrése answered, "No, Mère. I was just wondering how they are, and . . . if they have any news of Stephen."

"How long has it been since you received that note from him?"

"Almost two months." Thèrése ducked her head, hoping to hide the blush she felt creeping up her cheeks as she remembered the feel of his arm around her waist during the Bastille Day games.

"Hmm. And it has been several weeks since M. Templeton came to speak with us," added Mère. "Yes, chère, I believe a visit is in order. Once we get Patrice settled in, of course."


	19. Chapter 19

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: Warning for sexual content. :-)**

**At the end of Ch. 18, Mere and Therese had gone to bring a new child to the orphanage.**

Chapter Nineteen

When they arrived at Our Lady of the Angels, Mère told Thèrése, "Go along with Patrice and introduce her to the other girls her age."

As the two girls walked away together, the nun crossed herself, whispering, "Poor little child," under her breath. Patrice's parents and older brother had died in a fire; only by the grace of le bon Dieu had the child escaped unharmed.

Squaring her shoulders, Mère walked into her office and sat down behind the desk. She sighed, pressing her fingertips against her eyes for a moment. Sometimes I think I'm getting too old for all this.

Lying atop a pile of other papers was a folded note. With another sigh, she picked it up and read it quickly. It was the message from Christine and Erik, asking Mère to contact them upon her return. A corner of her mouth lifted in a smile. Coincidence? I think not. Immediately she wrote a reply, folded and sealed it.

She rose and called for Soeur Simone. "Have Charles drive to the Montenegros tomorrow and deliver this. He is to wait for an answer."

The younger nun nodded and tucked the note in her sleeve. "The new child, Patrice. What happened, Mère? She is so tiny and looks so lost and alone."

"Walk with me to the girls' wing and I will tell you what I know." As they climbed the stairs to the third floor, Mère repeated all that the monks had told her.

"That she was able to get out of the house is truly one of our Lord's miracles," murmured the younger nun.

"Indeed. Patrice may need a little extra care and attention, perhaps more so than our other new arrivals. These first few days will be extremely important, and possibly difficult." She paused on the threshold of the large room. Its walls were painted a creamy yellow and the shiny pine floor was dotted with rag rugs next to each bed.

Thèrése sat in a rocking chair at the end of one row of beds, holding a sleeping Patrice in her arms. She started to stand but Mère quickly motioned for her to remain where she was. A bright yellow curl dangled across the small girl's forehead and Mère brushed it back with a feather-light touch.

"She started to cry, Mère," whispered Thèrése. "Not loudly, but . . . I hoped it would calm her if I held her and rocked her for a little while, and sang to her."

"Well done, ma chère." She glanced at the bed next to the one where Patrice's small valise sat and saw that it was empty. "Perhaps you should remain nearby, in case she wakes during the night?"

Thèrése nodded. "Certainment, Mère. If someone could bring my nightclothes and slippers?"

Soeur Simone hurried away to collect Thèrése's things, which gave Mère an opportunity to mention the note from Erik and Christine. "So, in all likelihood, we will drive out to the Montenegros in the next day or two."

* * *

Despite huddling close to Erik under his cloak, Christine felt chilled to the bone by the time they arrived home. She shivered violently as they walked into the house. Erik scowled at her.

"Why didn't you tell me how cold you were?" he muttered as he hurried her upstairs. He stoked up the fire in their bedroom and flung aside his cloak. Quickly he unfastened and removed Christine's cloak, snatching up the crocheted throw from the loveseat. Still muttering, he wrapped her in it and dragged a chair up to the hearth.

"Sit down and get warm," he ordered her. "I'm going to draw you a hot bath."

Peeking up through her lashes at him, she asked, "And are you going to wash my back for me?"

He grinned at her wickedly in reply. "I . . . might be . . . persuaded to do so. And perhaps, if you are a good girl, I will also wash your . . . front."

Christine pretended to be outraged at his statement, but she couldn't stop a giggle from sneaking past her lips. She snuggled deeper into the throw and concentrated on ways to entice Erik into the tub with her. Not that it would take much effort, but . . .

She must have dozed, because the next thing she knew, Erik was carrying her into the bathing room. Lifting her head from where it lay on his shoulder, she kissed his marred cheek. "I love you," she whispered.

Carefully he set her on her feet, his fingertips grazing her cheek. "I know," he said, love and a hint of laughter in his voice. "You certainly would not put up with me otherwise."

"Maman? Papa?" Anna knocked on the bedroom door.

Christine started to answer her but Erik laid a finger over her mouth. "I'll see what she wants. You get into that tub, madam, tout de suite."

He closed the bathing room door securely behind him and strode across the bedroom. Opening that door, he found all three of the children standing in the hallway. He stepped out and pulled the door closed.

Anna looked on the verge of tears, and even pragmatic Marie appeared worried. Nicky's bottom lip stuck out so far that Erik had to chuckle. "Be careful, mon fils, or you will step on that lip."

He held out his arms to them and they all crowded in at once. Easing back a bit, he said, "Let's go into Anna's room. You all look very serious about something."

"Papa, is Maman all right?" The question burst from Anna as soon as they entered her room. "She has looked so pale lately and . . . she has seemed more tired than usual."

Erik sighed. You will simply have to forgive me, love. I need to tell them now. "You are going to have a new brother or sister in a few months. Maman is going to have a baby."

Anna's and Marie's cheeks became tinged with pink since they were old enough to know and understand more than Nicky. His response was typically Nicky. "I hope it's a boy, so we will outnumber you!"

Erik cleared his throat to keep from laughing. "In any event, we must all help Maman as much as possible. She has promised me that she will lie down and rest in the morning and the afternoon. She must not be disturbed while she is resting; do you understand?" All three heads nodded solemnly. "And you are to tell me if she seems extraordinarily tired."

"We promise," said Anna, and Marie and Nicky murmured their assent. "We will also ask Maman what things we may do for her."

Opening his arms again, he gathered the children close. "Merci, mes chères. Now, there is something that I must help Maman with, so we will see you at dinner."

When he returned to the bathing room, he found Christine in the large tub, her dark curls piled atop her head, leaving her slender neck exposed. Erik closed the door quickly, keeping the cool air out of the room. Within seconds his shirt clung damply to him, due to the steam in the air. He unbuttoned it and stripped it off, flinging it aside.

He knelt behind his wife and inhaled the wildflower scent that was hers alone. Gently he nibbled on the nape of her neck, gradually working his way across one shoulder.

She shivered delicately and leaned her head to one side. Languidly she opened her eyes and he felt himself falling into the deep dark pools. "Mon coeur," he breathed and leaned forward to kiss her deeply.

Slowly, as though with great effort, she turned and lifted a hand from the water. She slid it up his abdomen to rest above his heart. His skin was damp from perspiration and warm to the touch, the hard muscles jumping under her touch. His breath escaped in a hiss when she scraped her fingernail over his nipple.

"Love me, my angel," she begged him, her hand moving up to the back of his neck. He needed no further encouragement, and took her mouth in a hot fierce kiss.

Erik broke off abruptly and got to his feet. Unfastening his trousers, he shoved them and his underclothes down his legs in one movement. His boots and socks followed in rapid succession until he stood by the tub, magnificent in his naked glory.

Christine's mouth went dry; mutely she held out a hand to him. He took it and pressed a kiss to her palm then stepped into the tub. She moaned softly as he wrapped his arms around her. Immediately his hand went to her abdomen, the water enabling him to feel the bulge of their child more easily than the day before.

But his wife had other ideas. She took his hand and pulled it to her breast. Her breath caught on a sob as he teased the nipple with his fingers. Quickly his mouth replaced his fingers, making her groan and she thrust her hips against him. "Now, my love!" she cried.

He lifted her above him and let her slide down onto his manhood. Water splashed over the rim of the tub as she moved up and down. Both of them gasped for air. Christine braced her hands on Erik's shoulders, and his hands clutched her hips, holding her still. Her eyes drifted shut and her fingertips dug into his flesh.

He thrust twice more and felt himself empty into her. With a moan she collapsed on his chest, her body quivering with the intensity of their lovemaking.

"Erik?" she said, her voice a mere breath in his ear.

"Yes, love?"

"I feel much warmer now."

* * *

"Nothin' like hot chocolate on a day like today." Sara Jane took a sip and set her cup down. She dropped her hands to her lap and knotted her fingers together under the table. Hoping Jack couldn't tell how nervous she was, she stared at the frothy liquid in her cup as she began to talk. 

"That . . . morning, I'd gone to the bakery that was a couple of streets over from the academy. I was what they called a 'scholarship' student. The money from Grandma Jones wasn't quite enough to pay all my expenses, so I did chores to make up the difference. Helped the maid with the laundry and helped the cook, too."

She sighed. "Anyway, I'd gone to the bakery for cherry turnovers. If I went . . . down that alley, it was a much shorter trip. I'd walked that alley dozens of times and nobody even noticed me." Her heart pounded as all the emotion—all the fear—came flooding back. She reached for her chocolate but Jack intercepted her hand.

He rubbed her hand between both of his, frowning at the chill of her skin. "Sara Jane, darlin', you don't have to do this," he began, but she cut him off.

"Yes, I do! I need to get it all out and be done with it, once and for all."

He considered her statement then nodded, but refused to relinquish her hand.

"I suppose I'd seen him and his buddies at the academy's spring ball a few weeks earlier," she continued in a low voice. "I knew his name, but nothin' else about him. When I turned the corner and started down the alley, they were pi—um, answerin' the call of nature. I hoped to back up and get away before they saw me, but . . ."

Jack felt his temper begin to boil and he spoke through clenched teeth. "Even though I don't know you very well, I imagine you gave them a bit of a fight."

She smiled faintly. "Yeah, just a little. 'Course, I didn't do much damage though, seein' as how it was three against one." She chuckled without humor. "But I managed to kick one in the nu—uh, in a very . . . sensitive place."

"Good for you!" Jack grinned at her, and her heart felt a little lighter.

Sara Jane took another sip of chocolate, grimacing because it had gone cold. "Next thing I remember, someone was touchin' my shoulder and askin' me if I was all right." She looked away and swallowed hard. "The concern in your eyes," she whispered, tears coming to her eyes as she turned back to him. "The memory of that, the fact that a total stranger cared if I was all right, got me through some mighty hard days, Jack."

He slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. "Like I said the other day, I just wish I'd gotten there sooner." Without thinking, he pressed a kiss to her temple.

She stiffened for an instant, then relaxed against him. Easing back a couple of inches, she gave him a brave little smile that damn near broke his heart. "Me, too," she whispered.


	20. Chapter 20

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: Warning for language. At the end of the previous chapter, Sara Jane and Jack were talking in the cafe. **

Chapter Twenty

Her smile grew wider and Sara Jane sat back. "Your turn," she said.

Stalling for time, Jack signaled for Yvette to remove their dishes. "Not much to tell," he began, and Sara Jane gave an unladylike snort.

"I don't believe that for a second," she retorted. "There's an air of authority about you, and I'm bettin' that didn't happen just by accident."

He sighed heavily. "Okay. I grew up in Texas, on a farm on the Red River. Pa ran some cattle, raised a little cotton, some corn, wheat—the usual things. We weren't well off, but we never did without. Mama was French." At Sara Jane's look of surprise, he chuckled. "She and Pa met in New Orleans. She always laughed and said he swept her off her feet when anyone asked how they met. She never talked about her life before she met Pa, but she insisted we all learn a little French."

"All?" Sara Jane prompted him when he fell silent.

"I'm the oldest of three. Rafe is two years younger and Deborah is four years younger. I was always the one with itchy feet, I suppose. I loved the farm, but not nearly as much as Rafe."

Jack leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "When the war started, I was 24. I'd helped the sheriff catch some rustlers and some train robbers a year or so earlier. Turned out the sheriff knew Allan Pinkerton, and wrote to him about me." He gave her a tiny smile. "I was in St. Louis on my way back East to join the Union Intelligence Service when . . . we met."

Sara Jane looked at him speculatively. "So what was it like, bein' a Pinkerton?"

"Dirty, dangerous—sometimes boring as hell. Sure not anything like you'd read in a dime novel or a newspaper serial." Jack noticed someone looking at the picture of Stephen that he'd put up by the café door. Abruptly he stood. "Excuse me a moment."

Without remorse Sara Jane eavesdropped on the brief conversation between Jack and an older man. Jack returned to the table with a scowl. She asked—innocently she hoped— "Somethin' wrong?"

He jerked his chin toward the door. "I'm looking for that young man. His folks hired me. The boy's not in any trouble—they just want him to come home. Dammit!" he muttered. "One thing I learned real quick as an agent was to pay attention to my instincts. And my gut is screamin' that the boy is somewhere near here."

In the distance Sara Jane heard the town clock striking. Seeing a gold watch chain on his vest she asked, "What time is it?"

He fished the watch from his pocket and flipped it open. "Half past three," he told her and immediately she got to her feet.

"I've got to get started home." She picked up her coat, but Jack reached over and took it from her.

He held it for her, and she slid her arms into the sleeves, thanking him with a smile. In silence, they walked the short distance from the café to where her horse was tied. Her heart began to pound, beating harder with each step they took. Lord, help! What should I do? I cain't just tell him I know where Stephen is—not without talkin' to the boy first!

With a boost from Jack, she mounted her horse. "Jack, I . . ." Her voice trailed away when he put his hand over hers on the saddle horn.

"As crazy as it may seem, I want to see you again, Sara Jane."

* * *

Louis Chalfont watched with great interest as the red-haired bitch and the man who'd put a gun to his head talked in front of the dry goods store. How the hell do they know each other? He had a score to settle with both of them now, and he wouldn't rest until he had. After he got rid of his sainted brother, of course. Maybe I can do it all at the same time, he mused.

After the woman had ridden away, Louis slunk back to his hideout on the edge of town. In the course of his nosing around that day, he'd seen the pictures of the missing boy. He remembered the uproar created by the death of Raoul de Chagny years ago, and the missing boy looked enough like de Chagny to be his twin.

"Merde!" Louis sat down on the narrow bed with a thud. "That's who they were looking for," he muttered. "And that's the bâtard they hired to find him instead of me!" A smile of pure evil spread across Chalfont's weasel face. "But I am the one who knows where the damned brat is." He grunted. "I'm surprised my holier-than-thou brother hasn't turned him over to the police."

Immediately his twisted mind began to think of ways to kill the other detective and collect the fee due him for finding the brat. The memory of cold steel lodged behind his ear made Louis pause for a moment, a trickle of fear going through his belly.

Then he shrugged it off and lay back on the bed. He pulled the ragged blanket up to his chin. "I'll need someone to watch my back," he mumbled, thinking aloud. "I'll send Arnaud a telegram tomorrow." Soon he was snoring loudly, oblivious to the man staring through the grimy window at him.

* * *

Sara Jane's thoughts tumbled this way and that on the ride home, like a crazed acrobat at the carnival. "Lord," she murmured, "I know we haven't always been on speakin' terms, and I reckon that's my fault. But I sure could use some help here."

She rode on in silence for several minutes, deep in thought. I've already told Stephen that Jack is lookin' for him. Maybe that's all I oughta do.

The wind gusted, making her shiver, and suddenly she realized she'd left her gloves behind at the café. I hope Jack found them. They're my best pair. An idea occurred to her and she began to smile. Maybe—just maybe—I can convince Stephen to ride into town with me to get my gloves. And just maybe we'll run into Jack while we're there, and the two of them can talk.

Urging the horse to a faster pace, Sara Jane glanced up at the darkening sky and saw the Evening Star appear. Thanks, Lord.

When she arrived at the farm, Stephen fussed at her for going off by herself and for staying away until it was nearly dark. "Tante Sara Jane, what were you thinking?" he demanded. "Have you forgotten Louis Chalfont? We don't know where he is. He might have been hiding in the woods on the way to town."

Her mouth fell open in surprise and she stared at him. Hands planted on her hips, she said tartly, "Excuse me? I'll thank you to remember who you're talkin' to, my boy. And besides, who went off by himself yesterday afternoon and nobody knew where he was?"

Stephen's face flushed and he looked down at the ground. "Pardonnez-moi, Tante Sara Jane. It's just that . . . if something had happened to you . . ."

His gruff affection touched her and she melted, just a little. She slid her arm across his shoulders and gave him a brief hug. "Thanks, hon. Just . . . next time . . . Oh, hell, you know what I mean!"

Sara Jane untied the small bag from the saddle horn and told him, "There's flour in the saddlebags." He nodded and set them on the stable floor, then unfastened and removed the saddle.

"I'll bring them in when I'm finished here."

* * *

Jack rounded the corner to the telegraph office the next morning and immediately ducked back out of sight. Louis Chalfont stomped out of the office and down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. Carefully, Jack peeked around the corner, remaining concealed until Louis went into the café.

Entering the telegraph office, Jack smiled at the operator and said, "I need to send a wire." The clerk pointed to the paper available for writing out messages with a thin smile. Jack thanked him and began to write. As he composed his telegram to Erik, he asked casually, "The man who just left? Is he from around here, live nearby?"

The clerk grunted. "No, monsieur. Until he walked in here a few minutes ago, I had never laid eyes on him before. And I hope to never again!" At Jack's questioning look, he continued, "Arrogant fils du putain! He insisted I send his telegram collect, and it's been my experience that no one receives payment when that happens. And not only that, but he reeked of whiskey and stale smoke, and has not made use of any bathing facilities for much too long a time. I could barely stand to be near him without gagging." Eyes narrowed, he asked, "Why do you inquire, monsieur? Do you know him?"

Jack slid his message across the counter. "No," he said. "From a distance he looked a little like someone I once knew, but it isn't the same man." He waited as the clerk read through his message, then asked, "How much?" When the man told him, Jack handed him the money and thanked him. He turned toward the door then stopped. "I don't suppose you could tell me who he wired?"

The clerk shook his head. "No, monsieur, I'm sorry, I cannot." Then he made a show of dropping some papers on the floor, saying loudly, "Oh, how clumsy of me!"

Jack bent down to pick up the paper nearest to him, saw the poor penmanship and knew immediately this was the original of Louis' telegram. Quickly he memorized the name and address on it. "Here you are, monsieur," he said, handing the paper back to the clerk. "Thank you for all your help."

He strolled down the street to the dry goods store and went inside. He waited for a few minutes while the proprietor rang up some purchases for several ladies. When they had left, he asked, "Do you know someone who could be trusted to take a message to Paris for me, monsieur?"

"Certainment, monsieur. Do you have your message ready to send?" replied the store owner.

"Give me a few moments, s'il vous plait," Jack told him. He pulled his small notebook from his coat pocket and scribbled a note to Jean-Marc Gaspard, asking him to find out as much as possible about Arnaud Bertoil, an acquaintance of Louis Chalfont. Folding the paper, he asked for an envelope and slid the note inside. On the front he wrote Jean-Marc's name and address. "How soon will this reach him in Paris?"

The store owner sealed the envelope with a dot of hot wax. "By tomorrow, monsieur."

* * *

The next day, Christine was taking her afternoon rest when Erik entered the bedroom. "Are you asleep, love?" he whispered.

"No," she replied, stretching slowly. She sat up as he strode quickly to the bed and sat down next to her. "What's this?" she asked, tugging at the yellow envelope in his hands.

"A wire from Jack," Erik said, and watched as her eyes grew wide. "I didn't open it. I wanted to wait . . ."

"Open it!" she cried, one hand clamped on his forearm.

" 'Erik and Christine,' " he read, " 'in Sainte Anne du Jardin. No sign of Stephen, but my gut says he's close by. Will contact you as soon as I have more information. Jack.' "

"I knew it!" said Christine triumphantly. She flung herself into Erik's arms and they held each other, rocking back and forth. She laughed and cried at the same time, which mystified Erik to no end.

He pulled back after a moment, and looked into her eyes. "He says he has not seen him, mon ange, just that he feels that Stephen is nearby." His attempt at logic flew right out the window, however.

"I don't care!" she insisted. "My instincts tell me he is near Sainte Anne du Jardin, too. Surely that must account for something!"

A soft knocking on the door prevented Erik from responding. "Monsieur Montenegro?" the maid called softly.

He rose and went to the door, opening it a few inches. "Yes, Suzette?"

"Charles, the stable man from the orphanage is here, monsieur. He has asked to speak with both you and Madame, if possible."

Erik glanced over his shoulder and saw Christine scooting to the edge of the bed. Sighing, he told the maid, "Please take him into the parlor and tell him we will join him shortly, Suzette."

The little maid bobbed a quick curtsey and left. Erik turned back toward the bed as Christine slid into her shoes. "I wonder if he's bringing a message from Mère, a reply to our note," said Erik.

Christine slid an arm around his waist and grinned up at him. "Well, we won't find out standing here!" Arm in arm they descended the stairs and greeted Charles warmly.

"How are things at Our Lady of the Angels, Charles?" Christine sat on the loveseat and gestured for him to sit across from her. Before he did, he handed her the note from Mère.

"Very well, madame. All the children are quite excited about the Christmas preparations, as you might expect." He sat stiffly, turning his cap around and around in his hands while Christine and then Erik read the note.

They looked at each other and Christine nodded. "Please tell Mère that we will be quite pleased to welcome her and Thèrése tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock."

As Charles was leaving, the maid showed in Jean-Marc Gaspard. "I have received a message from Jack," he said.


	21. Chapter 21

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: There will probably be two more chapters and an epilogue for this story. Thanks to those who have reviewed, and to those who haven't, I hope you have enjoyed the story anyway. **

**At the end of Ch. 20, Jean-Marc Gaspard arrived at Erik and Christine's with a message from Jack.**

Chapter Twenty-one

Christine flinched at Jean-Marc's announcement and Erik reached for her hand. "We just received a wire from him ourselves," he told the solicitor.

"May I?" asked Jean-Marc, and Erik gave him the telegram. In turn, the older man handed him the message from Jack, and took a seat across from them.

Erik read quickly, frowning at the mention of Louis Chalfont and the request for information on the acquaintance. He handed the paper to Christine. "Have you discovered anything about this Arnaud?" he asked Jean-Marc.

"Not much, and what little I do know is disconcerting, to say the least." The solicitor leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. "He is . . . a little . . .slow, and not the same type of person as Chalfont, as one might expect. What I have found seems to indicate that he feels he owes Louis some kind of debt."

Christine made a snort of disgust, causing both men to smile. "How will you send this information to Jack?" she asked. Neither man responded immediately and she looked sharply at Erik, and then Jean-Marc. "Well?"

"I suppose . . . I will wire it to him," said Jean-Marc slowly.

"I hope you are not thinking what I fear you are, Christine," Erik said in a low voice. She opened her mouth, and he held up a hand to forestall her. "Remember your condition."

She blew out a breath in frustration and sank back against the cushions, shooting him an angry look.

Before Jean-Marc could ask, Erik explained, "You are going to become a grandpère again in a few months, mon ami."

A delighted smile spread quickly across the older man's face, only to fade an instant later. "How are you feeling, chère?"

"Well enough, I suppose. No sickness like the last time. But my husband," she continued in an aggrieved tone, "forces me to lie down and rest twice a day."

"Which is why you are going to travel no farther than the orphanage until the child is born. The journey to Sainte Anne du Jardin would be much too long and therefore too tiring for you." Erik's voice brooked no argument, and she huffed out another breath, her bottom lip poking out in a tiny pout.

Clearing his throat, Jean-Marc rose and said, "I believe that I shall take my leave now and allow you to finish your 'discussion' in private. I will send you a copy of whatever information I gather about this Arnaud." He bent down and kissed Christine on both cheeks, murmuring, "Take very good care of yourself, child."

She promised she would, and he bid them adieu. Erik stood and walked to the door with him.

A long moment of silence passed; finally she turned to look at Erik and asked, "What are you thinking?"

He gave her a lopsided smile. "I am trying to determine what you are thinking, love." Returning to the loveseat, he sat next to her and pulled her close; she laid her head on his shoulder.

For several moments the only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock. Christine put her hand on his chest, rubbing across his breastbone. "You're going to take the information to Jack, aren't you?" she murmured.

Erik dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "Yes," he answered quietly. "You read Jack's message; Louis sent a wire to this man. One must presume that he has asked Arnaud to come to Sainte Anne du Jardin to help him. If indeed Stephen is nearby, as both you and Jack maintain, then . . ." His voice trailed away.

"Something is going to happen soon," whispered Christine. She shivered, and Erik rubbed his hand up and down her arm. "You'll leave as soon as you receive it from Jean-Marc?" Erik nodded, and she raised her head and looked at him. Her eyes swimming, she said brokenly, "Please, mon ange? Please bring him home."

* * *

Stephen stood at the kitchen sink, grinning to himself as he heard Sara Jane moving about in her room. The sound of drawers opening and closing, accompanied by louder and louder muttering, led him to conclude she was looking for something. He went to her door and tapped lightly on the doorframe. "What is the matter, Tante Sara Jane?"

She jerked and looked over at him, noticing the cloth wrapped around his right hand. "What did you do to yourself this time?" she said as she came out of her room and into the kitchen.

"I scraped my hand on a nail. M. Victor is replacing the boards in the floor of the loft." He winced as she unfastened the cloth and looked at the wound.

"The nail wasn't rusty, was it? Come here," she ordered, going to the pantry. Grabbing a clean rag from a nearby bag, she dipped it in the kerosene barrel and pressed it to the scrape.

"Ow! No, it wasn't rusty! That hurts!" Stephen cried, and tried to pull his hand away. Sara Jane held on tightly, giving him a sharp look.

"Better that it hurts now than let it get infected," she retorted. Lifting the rag, she inspected his injury. "Doesn't look too deep, so you should be fine. But you watch it carefully, you hear?"

Knowing that tone of voice very well, Stephen nodded and said meekly, "Yes, Tante Sara Jane." He stood to one side and let her precede him to the kitchen. "What were you looking for when I came inside?"

Okay, girl, let's see how smooth a liar you are. "Must be gettin' old," she said, not quite meeting his gaze. "When I went back into town the other day for the flour I forgot, I must have left my gloves somewhere. I can't find them now." That much is the truth, anyway.

"Do you think you left them at the dry goods store? Maybe they're in the saddlebags." He turned back to the pantry, knowing that was where she kept them.

"Already thought of that—they're not there." Don't say too much! "Sure would like to have them back," she said wistfully. "They were my best pair." Going to the stove, she stirred the pot of soup and tasted it, adding a pinch more salt.

Stephen stepped up beside her and said, "Since Jolie is at her friend's house for the day, we could go into town and look for them."

"And leave the house empty? I don't think M. Victor will agree to that." Sara Jane wiped her hands on her apron and sat at the table.

Stephen frowned, knowing she was right. "But M. Victor is working in the barn today. Surely that would be close enough to the house to satisfy him."

She pursed her lips, considering the idea. "Maybe. Let's go ask him."

Victor had no objection to them riding into town. Once Sara Jane had returned to the house to move the soup to the back of the stove and retrieved her coat and reticule, they set off, Stephen driving the small buggy.

Well, so far, so good, she thought, watching him out of the corner of her eye. But I'd bet my bottom dollar he's got another reason for wantin' to come to town. Suddenly she realized he had spoken to her. "I'm sorry, hon. What did you say?"

"Do you remember all the places you went, the last time you came to town?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "Are you worried about somebody recognizin' you from the posters?"

He stared at the space between the horse's ears for several long moments. Finally, he sighed. "No, I don't think so. I have considered this very carefully since you told me about the man who is looking for me. I think . . . perhaps . . . I will be ready to go home soon." The letter in his trouser pocket to Thèrése seemed to burn through the cloth.

* * *

Jack had just finished grooming his horse when he glanced out the door of the livery stable and saw Sara Jane. She rode in a buggy driven by a young man; Jack would have recognized him anywhere from Erik's sketch. "I'll be damned," he muttered.

Hanging the curry comb on a nail, he went to the door and watched as they stopped in front of the dry goods store. Quickly, he brushed off his trousers and picked up his duster, making sure Sara Jane's gloves were in the pocket. He settled his hat on his head and rolled his shoulders to ease the tension. Here goes nothin'.

Jack made his way down the street as though he had all the time in the world. Reaching the store just as they exited, he tipped his hat. "Bonjour, Miss Jones," he drawled, watching her reaction as well as Stephen's. "I believe I have something that belongs to you." The delighted smile that crossed her face when she saw her gloves made his heart give a funny little thump.

"I'm so glad you found them," she murmured, and went up on her toes to give him a peck on the cheek.

Some perverse little devil in him made him turn his head just in time, so her lips grazed his mouth instead. "Oh," she breathed, her blue eyes wide with surprise, and he smiled at her consternation.

Stephen observed their exchange with increasing hostility. "Pardonnez-moi, monsieur. I do not believe we have been introduced."

Immediately, Jack turned to him and offered his hand. "My name's Jack Templeton. Your parents hired me to find you, Stephen. I'm glad to see you in one piece."

Stephen looked at Sara Jane, his eyes narrowed in resentment. "Did you truly lose your gloves, mademoiselle, or did you leave them behind on purpose?"

"Now just a minute, son. She's done nothing to deserve that tone of voice from you, and damn sure not that measure of disrespect." Jack's voice was hard; his eyes bored into Stephen's relentlessly.

" 'She' is quite capable of speakin' for herself!" Sara Jane declared hotly. "You just hold your horses," she told Jack, stabbing him in the chest with her index finger. She turned her back on him and addressed Stephen. "And you need to keep a civil tongue in your head, boy."

She took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. "Now, if we can talk about this calmly, like adults," she continued, "I think we can explain everything to everyone's satisfaction."

Stephen's face flushed and he clenched his jaw. He looked down at the ground then back at Sara Jane. "Pardonnez-moi, Tante Sara Jane, M. Templeton. I will listen to what you have to say."

"And we want to listen to you, too, hon," said Sara Jane quietly. She looked up at Jack. "Let's go to the café and get some chocolate. Seems like another good day for it."

Once they were seated at Jack's favorite table in the back, Sara Jane said, "Jack, why don't you lead off?"

He took a moment to put his thoughts in order, and then said, "Your folks hired me to find you, make sure you were all right. They received the note you sent and understand that you'll come home when you feel ready. When I did find you, I wasn't to put any pressure on you to come home until you're ready."

Yvette approached with their chocolate, favoring Stephen with a brilliant smile when he rose to help her with the heavy tray. Sara Jane and Jack shared a private smile at the young woman's mild flirting.

When he resumed his seat, Stephen looked squarely at Jack. "When you speak to my . . . family, please tell them that I will contact them soon. I have . . . worked through the problems that caused me to leave."

Sara Jane blinked back tears. "Boy, howdy, they'll be glad to hear that," she murmured.

"There is still one thing to consider, though," Stephen reminded her. "Louis Chalfont."

Jack nearly choked on his chocolate. "You know Louis?"

"Unfortunately, he is my employer's brother," Sara Jane told him disgustedly. "They're nothing alike, and certainly there's no love lost between them. Louis stupidly showed up at the farm a few days ago, struttin' around like a bantam rooster." She grinned, nodding at Stephen. "He dragged Louis outside by the arm, and you should've heard the little runt squeal."

"M. Victor told him he would kill Louis if he set foot on the farm again," added Stephen. "Once he had told us who Louis was, he warned us that the little âne would try to get revenge. So we have all been very careful not to find ourselves alone and away from the house."

"There's an added complication," Jack said in a low voice. "He's sent a wire to a friend to come here and help him with something. Promised the man a big reward."


	22. Chapter 22

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: It may be a little while before the next chapter is ready-- dental emergency and minor car accident are going to occupy my 'free' time in the coming weeks... At the end of Ch. 21, Stephen and Jack meet and talk; Jack tells him about Louis' "friend".**

Chapter Twenty-two

That night, under the faint light of the waning moon, a figure emerged from the shadows and made its way to the shack where Louis was staying. The figure knocked softly twice, paused, and then knocked twice more.

Louis jerked open the door and growled, "Get inside before someone sees you!"

Arnaud Bertoil ducked his head to enter the one-room shack. "I waited until dark, like you said," he mumbled, his shoulders hunched as if expecting a blow. Although he towered over Louis, the smaller man gave him a shove that nearly sent Arnaud to the floor.

"Sit down, shut up, and listen," spat Louis, sneering as Arnaud caught his foot on the leg of the cot and stumbled across the room. "I know where the de Chagny brat is hiding," Louis announced. He rubbed his hands together gleefully.

Arnaud started to speak, and Louis cut him off, saying, "Don't open your mouth until I tell you to!" Numbly, the other man nodded and Louis thought, Well, if something does go wrong, I can always blame it on this idiot! "The brat's living with my brother. We're going to get the boy and turn him over to his snooty parents for the reward."

Louis laughed coldly. "Of course, the stripling will be a little worse for wear by the time we're done with him." He flexed his arm, which was still quite tender from the abuse Erik and Stephen had given it. You've got a lot to answer for, boy. You and your freak of a step-papa.

The look of pure malice on Louis' face made a chill run down Arnaud's spine; however, he said nothing. Something about this did not seem right to him, but he had no choice but to go along with it. After all, he owed Louis his life.

"Pay attention!" snapped Louis. "We'll have to deal with my brother and that red-haired bitch who cooks for him, but we'll worry about that when the time comes." He paced the length of the shack twice, muttering as he did.

"The farm is about five miles outside of town, so we'll each need a horse. We can 'borrow' a couple of nags from the livery stable." He paused and looked at Arnaud. "You still carry that switchblade?"

In reply the big man reached into his boot and pulled out a folded knife, which he flicked open to reveal a mean-looking six-inch blade.

Louis nodded. "Good! Now get out of here and find a place to stay. And stay out of sight! Meet me at the livery stable the day after tomorrow, at three o'clock."

* * *

The information from Jean-Marc arrived the day after his visit to Erik and Christine. Erik skimmed through it quickly, committing a few salient facts to memory. He rushed upstairs and pulled out the bag he had packed. Going to the armoire, he took out a coat and tucked the papers in an inside pocket.

Cautiously he approached the bed; he knew Christine was not asleep by the pattern of her breathing. He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up her hand. She clenched his hand and sat up, tears tracing down her cheeks. "The information from Jean-Marc arrived a short time ago," Erik told her.

Without a word, she went into his arms and held him tightly. He felt her trembling and silently damned Louis Chalfont to the depths of hell. Rubbing a hand up and down her back, Erik murmured, "Shhh, mon coeur. I'll be back with Stephen before you realize I'm gone."

She eased out of his embrace and smiled weakly. "Just be very careful," she whispered, cupping his marred cheek. "You have said to me several times, in emotional moments, that you could not stand to lose me again. The children and I . . . we cannot stand . . . to lose you at all, mon ange."

"You won't," he promised. For an all-too-brief moment he held her close; then he released her and stood. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, whispering, "Je t'aime," before he turned and walked out of the bedroom.

When he reached the stables, he told Jacques to saddle his big gray stallion. Within minutes, Erik rode out of the barnyard and headed southwest, in the direction of Sainte Anne du Jardin.

* * *

Christine stood at the bedroom window, watching as he rode away. She turned her back to the window just before he went out of sight. Remember, you promised me, she told him silently. The children and I need you.

Listlessly, she walked to the fireplace and stirred the embers into a small blaze. She glanced up at the mantel clock as it struck seven times. Too early to begin my day and too late to go back to bed. She curled up on the loveseat, wrapping the crocheted throw around her. Staring into the flames, she thought back over the ten years she and Erik had shared. I have been very lucky in my life, really. I have been in love with—and have married—two very good men.

The dancing flames slowly hypnotized her and she dozed off, only to be awakened by knocking on the door. "Maman?" Marie called through the panel. "You asked me to remind you that Mère Genevieve and Thèrése are coming this afternoon."

"Merci, ma chère," replied Christine, looking at the clock in dismay. "Almost noon? I cannot believe it! I just sat down here a minute ago." In a louder voice she said, "Marie, please bring a tray up for me. I won't have time to come down for lunch." Without waiting for the girl to reply, she went into the bathing room and turned on the taps of the bathtub.

By the time she had finished her bath and dressed, Marie called to her again. "Maman? I have your lunch tray."

Christine opened the door and found not only Marie but Anna and Nicky as well. Smiling, she said, "To what do I owe this honor? Come in, mes chères—it looks like there is enough food for all of us."

Nicky ran ahead and pulled another chair over to the low table near the fireplace. "We want to help you, Maman. Papa told us about the bèbè, and that we are not to disturb you when you are resting." His brow furrowed in a perfect imitation of his father, and he asked, "But how will we know when you are resting, Maman?"

Christine arched a brow at his statement about the baby. "And just when did Papa tell you about the bèbè?" she asked, looking to the girls for a concise answer.

"A couple of days ago—not very long," said Anna. "We were so worried about you, Maman. You seemed so pale and . . ." Hoping to distract her mother from the question, she took a small crock of soup from the tray and handed it to Christine with a spoon and a napkin. "Here, Maman, some of Grandmère Violet's best chicken soup."

Realizing the source of her irritation was Erik and not the children, Christine smiled and inhaled the mouth-watering aroma of the soup. Her stomach growled loudly, and everyone laughed, erasing the tension of a few minutes before. As they ate, the conversation turned to more pleasant topics, including Christmas. The food quickly disappeared, except for a spot or two on Nicky's shirt.

"Now, mes enfantes, what else did Papa tell you?" Christine leaned back and folded her hands in her lap.

"Not much, truly, Maman. Just that . . . we would have a new brother or sister in a few months, and that we are to help you as much as possible. And as Nicky said, we are not to disturb you while you are resting." Marie spoke quietly, her eyes focused on the dirty dishes sitting on the tray.

"Bien. Let me think about it and I will have some specific things you may do to help me." Christine reached out and ruffled Nicky's hair; he protested mildly and ducked his head. Oh, how quickly they grow up, she thought, sighing.

A knock sounded on the open door and Suzette announced, "Mère Genevieve is here, Madame."

"Merci, Suzette. Please tell her I will be there in a minute." When Christine entered the parlor a short time later, she found the nun standing with her hands extended to the heat of the fireplace.

"Que Dieu nous aide!" the older woman muttered. "The wind is bitingly cold today."

Christine smiled at her affectionately, and said, "Let me ring for some chocolate, Mère. Surely that will help warm you a bit." Reaching for the bell pull, she directed Suzette to bring chocolate and some Christmas cookies. "I must apologize for Erik's absence," continued Christine. "He has gone to Sainte Anne du Jardin. We think Stephen might be there."

* * *

Erik arrived late the next afternoon and went directly to the livery stable. Jack met him at the door. "Louis Chalfont and his friend just took two horses and rode out," he said, his eyes hard and his mouth a thin line. "I overheard Louis say they were headed to his brother's farm. That's where Stephen is."

Erik vaulted off his horse's back and quickly stripped off the saddle, blanket and bridle. Jack's horse stood saddled and ready; he jerked his thumb toward a big roan gelding. "The livery owner said I could use this one whenever I needed," Jack informed him.

Working rapidly, Erik saddled the roan and swung up on its back. "Give him a good rubdown," he directed the stable boy. To Jack he said, "Tell me what has been happening as we ride," and headed out the door.

In short, concise sentences, Jack related what had happened since he sent the telegram. "I've seen Stephen—he's all right. He came into town with the housekeeper," he said. "He told me that if I talked to you to tell you he's just about ready to come home. Now, what about this Arnaud? He's a big man, but he seems . . ."

"A little slow?" Erik nodded. "And there's more—Jean-Marc discovered that for some reason, Arnaud thinks he owes Louis his life."

"Oh, hell," muttered Jack. "That's a whole 'nother kettle of fish."

"What about Louis' brother?" asked Erik. "Is he the same sort as Louis?"

Jack shook his head emphatically. "No, not at all. I've talked to the housekeeper a couple of times, and Victor Chalfont is a good man, from what she says. And I believe her. Evidently he didn't press Stephen about who he was or anything, just let him find his own way."

Sometimes that is all you can do, let them find their own way, thought Erik sadly. They rode for a few minutes, then Erik shot Jack an amused glance. "I hear a . . . certain note in your voice when you mention the housekeeper, mon ami."

A tinge of color appeared on Jack's face and neck. "Believe it or not, she's an American. Our . . . paths crossed many years ago, although we were never introduced. She's sort of taken Stephen under her wing, I guess you'd say. He calls her 'Aunt' Sara Jane."

"Interesting," murmured Erik. Clearing his throat, he went on, "What do you think Louis has planned?"

Jack grunted. "Something painful and humiliating, you can bet on it. Sara Jane and Stephen told me Louis waltzed in and started tryin' to throw his weight around. Stephen grabbed him by the arm and dragged him outside. Victor confirmed who Louis was and then—in front of Stephen and Victor's two sons— promised to kill him if he set foot on the farm again."

Erik felt grudging admiration for Victor. "Demeaned him in front of witnesses—nicely done. Yes, I agree that Louis will try to do something as degrading as he can manage." He considered several possibilities, then said, "He will have Arnaud restrain anyone who tries to come to Stephen's or Victor's aid, and then . . ." His voice trailed off, and he leaned forward, spurring his horse. "Let's hope we're not too late."

* * *

Stephen and Jolie sat at the kitchen table, picking the shells from some nuts that Sara Jane had received from a friend in America. Pecans, she called them, and promised them a wonderful Christmas treat if they would crack the shells and remove the nutmeats for her. Jolie chattered on about what she hoped Père Noël would bring her for Christmas. "And I'm hoping he will bring a new blanket for Lady," she added.

Suddenly her voice trailed away and they could hear sounds of distress coming from the barn. "Lady!" cried Jolie and she bolted from the kitchen before either one could stop her.

"Jolie! Wait!" Stephen started to rush out after her, but Sara Jane caught his arm and thrust a big butcher knife into his hand.

"Best to go prepared," she reminded him. He smiled at her grimly and they went out the door together. His long legs ate up the distance quickly and he left Sara Jane several paces behind. Just as he reached the barn door, he heard Jolie's squeal of outrage.


	23. Chapter 23

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: It appears that there will be at least one more chapter before this story comes to an end. That's what happens when you don't write from an outline... :-) At the end of Ch. 22, Jolie raced out to the barn after hearing Lady 'in distress'...**

Chapter Twenty-three

"You take your mangy hands off her, you smelly old man!" shrieked Jolie.

The sight that greeted Stephen when he reached the barn door stopped him dead in his tracks. White-hot rage and cold fear swept over him at the same time. Jolie clung like a burr to Louis Chalfont's back. She had one arm wrapped around his throat and tried to gouge him in the eye.

Louis snarled in pain and reached behind him to grab at Jolie's clothing. "Let go of me, you little putain," he growled. He pulled her halfway off his back, only to howl anew when the girl scored his cheek with her fingernails and drew blood. "Damn you," he spat, and slapped her, flinging her away from him with as much force as he could muster.

Jolie landed hard, narrowly missing a support post, and lay limp in the straw.

Stephen stormed into the barn with a bellow of outrage. In his anger, he dropped the knife Sara Jane had given him without realizing it. He grabbed Louis by the shoulder and spun him around. "Pick on someone your own size, you miserable cochon." Stephen's fist connected with Louis' jaw and he went down like a shot.

Grabbing him by his shirtfront, Stephen dragged him up and held him so that Louis had to stand on his tiptoes. "Evidently you did not believe M. Victor," he said, shaking Louis so that his head bobbed back and forth. "And, naturally, you chose a time when he is not here for your reappearance. But do not worry— you may well be dead before he returns."

"Pah!" Louis spat a mouthful of blood in the young man's face, causing him to loosen his hold enough for Louis to squirm free. Reaching out, Louis snatched up a shovel and spun around, aiming for the back of Stephen's head. Suddenly Louis went still, feeling the tip of a knife gouging into his back.

"Don't move, you worthless little son of a bitch, unless you want me to slice you open, good and proper," said Sara Jane through clenched teeth. She ignored the rustle of straw behind her, thinking it was Jolie. "Dammit!" she swore as huge arms closed around her, and a ham-like hand clamped down on her wrist. The pressure forced her to drop her knife, and no matter how she squirmed, she couldn't break free. "Let go of me, you big oaf!" she demanded, prying at his fingers.

By now Stephen had managed to wipe the blood out of his eyes, and he leaped out of the way of the shovel just in time. On the next swing, he grabbed the shovel, and after a brief struggle, yanked it out of Louis' hands. The smaller man looked surprised, and Stephen smiled at him coldly as he tossed the shovel to one side. "You can't even fight your own battles, can you?" he asked, jerking his chin at the big man who held Sara Jane captive. "You need help."

"And all the help you have is this putain," sneered Louis. He laughed when he saw the flare of anger in Stephen's eyes at the word 'putain'.

"Stephen! Don't let him rile you like that," warned Sara Jane. "He's hopin' you'll make a stupid mistake."

"Shut up, woman." The big man holding her spoke for the first time. "And be still, or I'll gag you."

Fuming, she closed her mouth with a snap. Jack, where are you? We need help! Now!

Across the barn, Jolie moved very slowly, dragging herself out of sight. Her shoulder ached from where she landed on it, but she knew she had to get out of the barn without being seen and find her papa and her brothers, someone, anyone who could help Stephen and Sara Jane.

Finally she reached the doors and slipped out unseen. Without a backward glance she began to run toward the road, slipping occasionally in the mud. When she got to the road, she stopped a moment to catch her breath. At least I stopped him from hurting Lady, she thought, and hurt him instead!

* * *

Warily, Louis and Stephen circled each other, fists raised. Lady nickered uncertainly and Stephen glanced in her direction. In that split second, Louis grabbed a handful of oats from a feedbox and flung them in the young man's face.

Stephen brought his hands up in an attempt to cover his eyes, but the dust blinded him momentarily. Louis charged at him, striking him in the stomach with his shoulder. The two went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Louis swung wildly, missing as many blows as he landed.

Then the small man scrambled to his feet and began kicking Stephen in the ribs. Stephen cried out once and was still.

Helpless, Sara Jane watched as Louis continued to kick the young man as he lay in the straw. An unearthly sound from above made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. Surreptitiously, she glanced up and saw a man dressed entirely in black drop down from the rafters and land right behind Louis.

Feeling her captor inhale to call out a warning, she stomped on his instep with the heel of her boot as hard as she could. Arnaud yowled in pain and Sara Jane broke free from his grasp. She turned on him and kneed him violently in the groin. "I told you to let me go," she said as he lay writhing on the barn floor.

Just then, Jack burst through the doors, his Colt drawn and ready. "Are you all right, darlin'?" he asked quickly, glancing over her shoulder as Erik pummeled Louis. He grinned down at Arnaud. "Looks like I got here a tad too late," he remarked and slung an arm around her shoulders for a quick hug.

"How did you know where to find us?" Sara Jane looked up at him worriedly. He dropped a kiss on her forehead, and closing her eyes, she savored it, for just an instant.

"A little girl came running down the road toward us," Jack told her.

Sara Jane sighed in relief. "That had to be Jolie. I thought I saw her sneak out." Tugging on Jack's hand, she moved to where Stephen lay face down. "Help me with him," she added, kneeling by his side. "I bet he's got some broken ribs."

The young man groaned. "Damn, that hurts," he muttered. He sucked in a sharp breath as Sara Jane and Jack helped him turn over.

Meanwhile, Erik grabbed Louis by the scruff of his neck, landing punches that emphasized each word. "I suppose some people are just too stupid to learn," mused Erik. "Take yourself, for example, Louis. One would think that after the severe beating that I gave you a few weeks ago, that you would have learned not to trifle with me or my family."

He landed two more quick blows to Louis' mid-section, making him double over. With each succeeding punch, Louis staggered back a few feet, until his head smacked into one of the big posts. Almost comically, the little man's eyes rolled back in his head and he slid down to rest at its foot. The former Phantom of the Opera leaned down and hauled the little man back to his feet. "Pay attention, Louis. I am trying to instruct you."

Feeling a sudden rush of air behind him, Erik turned just as Stephen called out, "Erik! Behind you!" Quickly, he thrust Louis aside and squared around to face this new challenge. He sidestepped as Arnaud tried to grab him.

The big man stood holding his switchblade in one huge fist; its blade gleamed dully in the faint light. He made a couple of slashing movements toward Erik, who danced out of reach.

"Kill him, you fool!" shouted Louis from a few feet away. He attempted to get to his feet but fell back to the floor in a heap.

"Arnaud, listen to me," said Erik, modulating his voice in a manner that Stephen had never heard before. The voice cajoled and soothed at the same time.

Mesmerized, Arnaud frowned and shook his head as if trying to clear it.

"You don't want to do this, Arnaud," Erik went on in the same tone. "You know it is wrong, no matter what hold Louis thinks he has over you." He saw that the big man was wavering and held out his hand. "Give me the knife, Arnaud. I won't hurt you; no one will ever know you were a part of this."

Louis struggled again to gain his feet, only to feel cold steel under his ear. He froze, his nearly uncontrollable anger making him quiver.

"Now, tell me why I shouldn't just blow your head clean off," drawled Jack as he pulled the hammer back slowly until it clicked into position.

From across the barn, Sara Jane giggled at the look on Louis' face. Stephen started to laugh but stopped abruptly when pain stabbed through his ribs.

Suddenly, something in Louis snapped. He spun around and gave his wrist a flick; a small knife appeared in his hand. Before Jack could move out of the way, Louis slashed him across the forearm and Jack dropped his pistol with a curse.

"Ha-ha! I have the upper hand now," crowed Louis, waving the knife wildly. He feinted toward Jack and laughed when the other man jumped backward.

Slowly, so as not to draw attention to herself, Sara Jane stood and started toward Louis and Jack. She looked down with a hiss when Stephen tugged on her skirt. He handed her the butcher knife he had dropped earlier. Thanking him with a nod, she held it in the folds of her skirt and advanced cautiously.

Too busy taunting Jack to pay any attention to her, Louis grunted in surprise when she jabbed him with the point of her knife. "Now who's got the upper hand, you filthy little bastard?" she gritted out. "Drop the knife," she continued, digging the tip deeper into Louis' back when he balked.

"Let me take care of that for you, Sara Jane," Jack said with a slight grin. He had picked up his gun and now held it in his left hand, the barrel steadily pointed at Louis' gut. With a practiced move he took the knife from the little man and slid it in the pocket of his duster.

By this time, Erik had Arnaud sitting on the floor, his hands tied behind him and his ankles bound together. He went over to where Stephen sat, and knelt down next to him. "Are you all right?" Erik said softly, studying the boy's face. There was a large bruise darkening one cheek, evidence of his scuffle with Louis.

Stephen drew in a shallow breath. "I think I might have a broken rib," he said, grimacing as he moved the wrong way. "Erik, I'm so—"

"No," his step-father cut him off. "There is no need for an apology. We will talk . . . later, after Mlle. Sara Jane has tended your ribs."

"Well, Erik, now what do we do with him?" Jack shoved a bound and gagged Louis toward the others, holding the other end of the rope tied around the captive's wrists.

Sara Jane snorted before Erik could reply. "I vote for spittin' him and roastin' him over a slow fire," she muttered, adding quickly, "If I get a vote, that is."

Erik and Jack chuckled aloud; Stephen gave her a wide smile. "Merci, Mlle. Sara Jane," Erik said. "We will take your suggestion into consideration."

"What the hell is going on here?" The question thundered from the doorway, making everyone jump in surprise. Victor Chalfont stood with his sons, surveying Louis and Arnaud with a scowl.

Stephen tugged on Sara Jane's hand and she helped him get to his feet. With one arm wrapped tightly around his middle, he came forward. "M. Victor, this is my step-father, Erik Montenegro," he said, "and this is Jack Templeton. Erik hired M. Templeton to find me, but how they both came to be here, I am not certain."

At that moment, Jolie pushed past her father and would have flung herself into Stephen's arms, but Sara Jane caught her just in time. "Careful, chère, he may have a broken rib," she cautioned. Seeing beads of perspiration on Stephen's forehead, she added, "Sit back down before you fall, boy."

"Perhaps you and Mlle. Jolie could take Stephen to the house and tend to his ribs?" Erik suggested smoothly.

Sara Jane gave Erik a long, serious look. Then she nodded and told Jolie, "Get on his other side and put your arm around his waist." To Stephen, she murmured, "I think we'd best leave this to M. Victor and your step-papa."

Before they could take more than a few steps, Louis abruptly pulled loose from Jack's hold and made a run for the door. Without thinking, Sara Jane stuck her foot out and tripped him. Unintelligible noises came from behind the gag as he fell, then he was eerily silent. Slowly Victor approached his brother and nudged him with one boot.

Louis didn't move and Victor used his foot to turn his brother over. Unseeing eyes stared up at him and a trickle of blood ran from one corner of his mouth. Puzzled, Victor crouched down and laid his head on the smaller man's chest. "He's dead," he told the others softly. "He must have hit his head on something . . ."

Victor looked more carefully at the spot where Louis had fallen. Partially buried in the straw was a shovel. He picked it up, and Stephen gasped.

"He swung it at me several times, and I wrenched it away from him," he murmured.

"An accident," pronounced Victor, and everyone nodded in agreement. "Since I doubt that anyone will lament his passing, my sons and I will bury him out in the woods." Glancing at Arnaud, he asked, "And what are we to do with him?"

Erik went over to the big man and cut the rope that bound his ankles. He tugged on Arnaud's elbow, saying quietly, "Stand up, Arnaud. No one will hurt you, I promise." When the big man towered over him, Erik looked directly into his eyes. He saw no guile there, no malice, no evil, only confusion. "I think I know a place where you would be happy," murmured Erik, "but I must speak with someone about you first."


	24. Chapter 24

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: This will be the last 'full' chapter, followed by an epilogue which I hope will answer any remaining questions. At the end of Ch. 23, Erik and Jack arrived to help Stephen and Sara Jane deal with Louis Chalfont...**

Chapter Twenty-four

Victor and his sons rolled Louis' body into a blanket and loaded it onto the wagon. Francois picked up a lantern and lit it. Arnaud approached Victor and they exchanged a few words, then followed the wagon into the night.

Sara Jane took one look at Stephen's pale, sweat-beaded face and said, "Time to get to the house and check your ribs, hon. Do you think you can walk, or do you want Jack and Erik to carry you?" Grinning to herself when the young man adamantly refused to be carried, she added, "All right, then, we'll take it real slow."

Erik and Jack trailed along behind them, listening politely as Jolie chattered away. Suddenly she stopped and glared at Erik. "You're going to take him home now, aren't you?" she said accusingly.

"I don't know, petite. That is something Stephen and I will have to discuss, once he is feeling better." With a tiny smile, he added, "I know that Stephen's brother and sisters miss him, not to mention his maman."

"But what about Lady and me? We need him, too! No!" She stamped her foot. "He can't go with you!" she shouted and ran into the house.

Jack whistled softly through his teeth. "Looks like you've got a hard row to hoe there, my friend."

Erik merely sighed. After a moment, he asked, "You don't believe there will be any repercussions, any trouble from the authorities regarding Louis, do you? It was an accident, as Victor said."

Pursing his lips, Jack considered several possibilities. Finally, he shook his head. "No. Victor was correct— I doubt few people will notice Louis' absence. And if anyone does, we will all be able to answer truthfully that it was an accident."

They arrived in the kitchen to find Sara Jane examining Stephen's ribs. "Well," she muttered, "no bones pokin' out, at least." She soaked a cloth in witch hazel and laid it over a place already beginning to bruise. "How bad does it hurt to breathe?"

Experimentally, Stephen took a deep breath, only to close his eyes and bite his lip to keep from crying out. "Badly enough," he said, trying not to sway.

Sara Jane pulled some strips of cloth from a shelf in the pantry. "Can you lift your arms?" she asked, nodding in satisfaction when Stephen did so without a grimace. "That's a good sign," she told him. "I need somebody to hold this end," she said to the others, and Erik stepped forward, a questioning look on his face.

Stephen nodded once and tried not to flinch when the cloth touched a sore spot that had yet to change color. He made a soft noise in his throat as Sara Jane circled him with the cloth, wrapping his ribs snugly, but not too tight.

"Don't want to get it so tight that you can't breathe, hon," she murmured as she pinned the end with a couple of safety pins. "How does that feel?"

Cautiously, Stephen took a couple of breaths, each one a little deeper than the last, and smiled at her. "Merci, Tante Sara Jane. That feels much better."

"You tell me if the pain gets too bad, hear? There's no use sufferin' when you don't have to," she told him sternly. "I'll unwrap you and check those bruises in the morning, all right? Be careful turnin' over in your sleep, too."

"I will make him as comfortable as possible, Mlle. Sara Jane. If I could beg a pillow and a blanket from you, I will sleep nearby and watch over Stephen during the night," said Erik. Surprised when Stephen voiced no objection, Erik thanked Sara Jane with a smile as she brought him the items.

With help from Jack, Erik, and a little from Jolie, Sara Jane put a quick meal together and they sat down to eat. Jack claimed the spot next to Sara Jane, which caused Jolie to scowl at him. Both Stephen and Erik tried to coax a smile from her, but to no avail. As soon as they finished eating, the girl vanished upstairs.

Sara Jane shooed Erik and Stephen out of the kitchen, saying, "I've got all the help I need right here," with a nod at Jack. Stephen leaned as far down as his ribs would allow and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Then he and Erik made their way slowly to the barn.

Once there, Stephen eased down on the cot and gingerly scooted backward until he could lean against the wall. Erik turned the small crate up on its end and sat at the foot of the cot. The silence grew uncomfortably thick before Stephen asked, his voice tentative, "How are Maman and the girls and Nicky?"

Erik replied, "They are all well. Nicky has grown about four inches, and has matured a bit. He's been helping me care for Autumn. Since you've . . . been gone, she won't allow anyone else to touch her." He paused, then added, "The girls have been very worried about you—especially Anna."

Stephen let out a slow breath. "It was . . . horribly thoughtless of me to leave like that; I know. But . . . I simply could not stand it one moment longer. I had to get away, or . . ."

His voice trailed off, and he plucked at a loose thread in the blanket.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Erik said softly, "I think I understand how you felt." Another pause, then he went on, "We have never spoken about your papa, Stephen. Your maman has told me that you know a little of what happened before you were born. I want you to know that . . ." With a sound of dismay, he stood and walked a few feet away, keeping his back to Stephen. "I know that I could never replace your papa, Stephen, for many different and complex reasons. But I want you to know—I think of you as my son, also—every bit as much as Nicky."

"I have wronged you and hurt you in many ways, and for that, I beg your forgiveness." Stephen's voice was soft, but it pierced a little empty pocket of Erik's heart and filled it to overflowing.

Walking back to the crate, Erik sat and rested his forearms on his knees. "When we hired Jack, your maman and I decided that when he found you, we were not going to pressure you in any way to return until you were ready. However, I do intend to go into town tomorrow and send her a telegram to let her know we have found you." He stared at the floor for a moment before raising his eyes to Stephen's. "And I must tell you—your maman is enceinte."

* * *

As soon as Erik and Stephen left the kitchen, Jack enveloped Sara Jane in his arms. "I was so worried about you," he muttered, his nose buried in her hair.

She closed her eyes, trying to memorize the way it felt to be held tightly against him. Her arms went around his waist and she laid her head on his chest with a tiny smile. "I know how to take care of myself," she whispered.

"Doesn't stop me from worryin'," he grumbled. He eased back a few inches and looked at her, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek and down her neck. "I don't like worryin' about you, darlin'."

Suddenly, fear of what she felt for this man flooded over her. She drew away from him and turned her back. "And just who decided you needed to worry about me?" she said over her shoulder.

Astounded, Jack propped his hands on his hips. After a moment, he shook his head. "No. We're not going to do this." Reaching out, he took her shoulders and turned her around. "We've had a connection since June of '62, Sara Jane," he said firmly. "I don't know exactly where it's headed, but now that we've found each other, you're not gonna get rid of me that easily."

Before she could object, he pulled her up on her toes. "I've been waitin' to do this for a long time," he murmured, and bent his head. Her eyes drifted shut on a sigh. His lips touched hers softly, tentatively, as if asking permission. When she made no attempt to stop him, he deepened the kiss, her mouth falling open under his gentle assault.

His arms wound around her and she clung to his neck. A shaft of heat like she had never felt before shot up from Sara Jane's belly and she moaned. She broke the kiss, gasping for air. "Oh, God!" she breathed.

Jack trailed kisses down her neck, and her head fell back. Carefully he set her on her feet and grasped her chin with his fingertips. "Look at me, darlin'," he said, and her eyes opened slowly. Huge, hazy blue and unfocused, the sight of them made him smile.

"The way I see it, I've got 25 years of catchin' up to do, Sara Jane," he told her softly.

She took a couple of steps back from him. "It's just . . . it's all happened so fast," she murmured. "I never thought . . . after what happened to me . . . that I'd ever . . ." She swayed and Jack grabbed her hands. "I think I need to sit down."

He hooked a leg of one of the kitchen chairs with his foot and pulled it toward him. Still holding her hands, he sat and tugged her down onto his lap. "Better?"

"Well, yes and no." Her face showing no emotion, she looked at him and sighed. "The thing is, I can't think straight, sittin' here like this."

Jack gave her a wicked grin. "Good!" he said. "Then we'll be sittin' like this a lot."

Sara Jane shot off his lap like she had springs in her skirt. "Now, just a cotton-pickin' minute! You may have 25 years of catchin' up to do, but as far as I'm concerned, we just met. And we're gonna take this nice and slow."

Before he could respond, Jolie came stomping down the stairs. Jack gave Sara Jane a heated look. "Let's just say this conversation isn't over yet," he muttered.

* * *

The next morning, after Stephen repeatedly assured Jolie he would come back, he and Erik drove into town. They rode a mile or so in silence, then Erik commented, "She has gotten quite attached to you, Stephen." He chuckled as he recalled, "She has already given me quite a tongue-lashing for taking you away, and we have not left yet."

The young man shrugged, noting with relief that his ribs were less painful. "She . . . has always reminded me a bit of Nicky," he murmured.

Shaking his head, Erik grinned. "Sacré bleu! The thought of the two of them together is enough to cause nightmares."

Several more minutes passed before Stephen spoke. "You said last night . . . that Maman is enceinte. Is she . . . well? I remember the last time, how awful it was for her . . . and you."

"Things appear . . . to be going much better this time," replied Erik. "I have insisted that she lie down and rest twice a day, and so far, she has just been very tired, and not . . . ill." He glanced at the young man sitting next to him. "But I am confident that she will soon feel on top of the world, once she receives this telegram we are about to send."

Early Christmas morning

Quietly, Erik opened the door to Chanson House and reached for a small lamp sitting on a table near the door. Striking a match, he lit the lamp and helped Stephen take off his coat. The young man's ribs were still tender, but much improved in the last day.

"I see a light in the parlor," whispered Erik, frowning. "Let me see if anyone is there, then we'll go upstairs and find your maman and the girls and Nicky."

When he walked into the parlor, he found Christine asleep on the sofa, a light blanket covering her, and a low fire burning in the fireplace. Erik went down on one knee and gently brushed a curl off Christine's forehead. Replacing the curl with his lips, he gave her a soft kiss and spoke her name. "Christine, wake up, my love."

"Hmmm? Erik?" Drowsily, she opened her eyes and smiled at her husband. "Oh, you're back," she murmured. She lifted a hand and cupped his marred cheek. "You were wrong," she went on. "I knew you were gone." Now more awake, she tried to sit up. "Where is Stephen? Your wire said you had found him, that—" Agitated, she attempted to stand up too quickly and swayed on her feet.

"I am here, Maman." Stephen spoke from just behind the sofa, coming around the end of it to grasp her hands.

With a glad cry, she fell into his arms, not feeling his wince of pain as she hit a sore rib. "Oh, mon bèbè! Mon fils!" Her hand trembling, she touched his forehead, his cheeks, and his chin before succumbing to a flood of tears.

Carefully Stephen sat down on the sofa, keeping her in his arms. "Shh, Maman, please don't cry. I am here; I am all right." When her crying continued, he looked at Erik with panic.

"Move over a bit," said Erik, and he sat down on the other side of them, rubbing his hand up and down Christine's back. "Hush, mon coeur; you will make yourself sick," he told her.

She sniffled loudly and Erik fished a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to her. When she had wiped her eyes, she gave them a wide smile. "Let's go show the girls and Nicky what Père Noël has brought us."


	25. Chapter 25

**Nothing But Love**

**A/N: Helas, we come to the end of the story. I hope everyone has enjoyed it, both reviewers and lurkers alike. :-) Some of these characters may appear yet again-- time will tell. Merci beaucoup to HD Kingsbury, Shirl, MadLizzy and Speedy for all their help.**

Epilogue

Chanson House, late July, 1888

"I now pronounce you man and wife. M. Templeton, you may kiss your bride."

At those words, Jack turned to Sara Jane with a distinct gleam in his eye, and lifted the gossamer veil. She barely had time to murmur, "Remember who's watchin'," before he lowered his head and kissed her soundly.

They broke apart with a chuckle when they heard Nicky mutter, "Eeeewww," followed immediately by "Oww! What did you hit me for, Jolie?"

Soft laughter from the others in the room covered her reply. Stephen, Anna, Marie and Thèrése rolled their eyes at each other; Victor, Francois and Richard merely shook their heads. Since Christmas, Stephen had made several trips back to visit with the Chalfonts and they had traveled to Chanson House, since Christine could not make the journey to Sainte Anne du Jardin.

During an examination in May, Madame Piccout, the midwife, had reported feeling what could only be two tiny heads within Christine's womb. Erik's and Christine's dreams about twins had indeed been true. For the last several weeks, Christine had been under strict orders to remain in bed except for necessary trips to the bathing room.

Ensconced now on the loveseat, her back supported by several pillows, Christine watched as Sara Jane and Jack accepted hugs and handshakes. She and Sara Jane had become fast friends, and Jack and Erik had become business partners. Erik had designed a house for them, and they had purchased property for it halfway between Sainte Anne and Paris.

Suddenly, Christine stiffened and bit her lip. A pain in her lower back had been nagging her since she awoke that morning; now it increased in intensity and crept its way around her belly. She gasped softly, but Erik heard her and immediately came and knelt down in front of her.

"Is it time, love?" he asked softly, and picked up one of her hands. She clutched it tightly, pulling in a long breath that she released in pants.

He stood and carefully gathered her into his arms. Silence fell over the room as Erik made his way to the door. Over his shoulder he directed, "Stephen, go to Mme. Piccout's house and tell her the babies are on their way." Taking the stairs slowly, Erik carried Christine to their room.

Sara Jane unpinned her veil and handed it to one of the girls. "Run and get me a spare apron from the kitchen, hon," she said to Anna. Motioning for Jack to follow her, she went out into the hall. "You take the young'uns and keep them occupied," she told him. "And don't come back all muddy! We've still got ourselves a honeymoon to take."

Jack tried to look offended but failed miserably. "Last time wasn't my fault," he protested, grinning when Sara Jane gave him a knowing look.

"Tante Sara Jane, we can help," said Anna when she returned with the apron. She looked at Marie and Thèrése, both of whom nodded.

"Good! I imagine we're gonna need all the help we can get," replied Sara Jane. "But let me go up and check on your mama and see how she's doin'. I'll come back down as soon as I can."

The sight that greeted her when she entered the bedroom took Sara Jane by surprise. Erik and Christine stood at the foot of the bed; Christine was bent over clutching his forearm with both hands, panting loudly.

"Thank God, you're here!" they both exclaimed. "This is happening— much faster—than before," Christine added. "I think the—babies—are coming—now! I can't keep—from pushing."

"Towels to protect the bed are through there." Erik jerked his chin toward the bathing room. Sara Jane gathered up as many as she could carry and spread them under Christine quickly when Erik lifted her. "Help me get her dress off," he said, only to have Christine moan loudly.

"I think we just ran out of time," muttered Sara Jane. She dashed to the door and called for the girls. When they appeared, she snapped out orders. "Thèrése, I need a knife or a pair of scissors that have been boiled. Anna, bring the clothes your mama has made for the babies and a couple of extra blankets. Marie, you come with me and do whatever we tell you to do."

When they returned to the bed, Erik had removed his shoes and waistcoat and had gotten into bed behind Christine. Her dress was soaked but luckily, it buttoned down the front. Marie immediately unfastened it and Erik helped his wife get her arms free, then raised her up enough for Marie to slide it out of the way. The single petticoat quickly followed and Marie ran to the linen closet for a clean sheet.

Thèrése returned, carrying two pairs of scissors on a towel. "Madame Violet said we would need this string, also," she said, several lengths of damp string on the towel as well.

"All right then, here we go," muttered Sara Jane as she gently raised Christine's knees. Swallowing hard, she glanced up at her friends. "I can see the top of somebody's head," she told them, awe in her voice.

"Good! Then—let's see—what—the rest—looks—like!" With the next contraction Christine gave a huge push and felt the tiny body slide from her.

"It's a girl!" cried Sara Jane over the angry wails of the baby. Marie stepped up to her with a clean towel and gingerly held the squirming little scrap of humanity while Sara Jane tied and cut the cord.

"Oh," sighed Marie. "She's beautiful." The other girls crowded around her for a quick look.

Erik bent his head and kissed his wife's tousled curls. "Bravissima, mon coeur," he whispered.

"Ohhhh," she moaned, "not finished yet." She bore down again, twice more, and heard the cries of the other baby.

"This one's a boy!" Sara Jane grinned up at them. "Looks like his papa."

Erik's breath caught in his chest at that, easing only when Anna and Marie brought the babies to them. He and Christine spent several minutes checking fingers and toes, assuring themselves that their newest children were perfect.

Sara Jane and Thèrése bustled around cleaning up, then they slipped away to tell the others that everyone was fine. Stephen arrived with Madame Piccout and she pronounced everyone to be in good health.

Later that afternoon, after a restful nap, the entire family, plus Sara Jane and Jack, gathered in Erik and Christine's room. Nicky was typically uninterested, muttering, "All they do is sleep." After a moment, he frowned. "But what are their names?"

"Your sister," said Erik solemnly, "is named Sara-Jeannette." Hearing Sara Jane's soft gasp, he walked over to her and took both her hands in his. He kissed the back of each hand, adding, "We can never thank you enough for all the things you did for Stephen."

"And your brother," Christine told them, "is named Jean-Thomas." Now it was Jack's turn to be flustered. "We will never be able to repay you for finding Stephen," she whispered.

Jack had to clear his throat twice before he could speak. "We are . . . honored, and humbled. You have made us a part of your family."

Sniffling, Sara Jane wiped her eyes and added, "It's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me."

Just then Sara-Jeannette let out an angry wail, and Jack grunted, "She sounds just like you, too."

His new wife swatted him on the arm as everyone else chuckled. "Just you wait, John Thomas Templeton," she told him, her eyes narrowed. "Just you wait."

Amazingly, baby Jean-Thomas slept on, oblivious to the ruckus his sister was making. Erik picked up his new daughter and carried her to the bed. As he leaned down to put the baby in Christine's arms, he murmured, "They sound like an old married couple already, don't they?"

She smiled up at him, and he fell in love with her all over again.


End file.
